Remember The Time
by Jaganlicious
Summary: Logan is the curator of a museum, when a robbery takes place in the museum and he is the only one who knows what happened, but now he is in the hospital with no memory of the robbery and some parts of his past, and things not improve when Detective James D. accuses him of being responsible for the robbery. James/Logan, Logan/Dak and ligth Kendall/Carlos. Give it a chance and enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

_**I Don't Own Anything!**_

_**Complete s**_**_ummary: _****_Logan is the curator of a museum, when a robbery takes place in the museum and he is the only one who knows what happened, but now he is in the hospital with no memory of the robbery and some parts of his past, and things not improve when Detective James D. accuses him of being responsible for the robbery. _**

**_He wants to remember his past to prove his innocence, but what he does not know is that his memories hide the love of his life and many secrets about his life. Can he find his memories?_**

* * *

_**REMEMBER THE TIME**_

**Chapter One**

The moon was enormous—ripe, red-gold, hanging low in the sky. From the flowering jacaranda, the mockingbird was scolding. _Chjjjj…chjjjj…chewk._

Logan stumbled up the brick path. His foot caught and he went down, on his knees, breathing hard. His hands were white blurs on the warm stone. He tried to focus, and he could see the ink splotches of blood—_his _blood—running down his face and dripping onto the bricks.

His stomach rose in protest. Swallowing down his nausea, he pushed back to his feet. The black velvet leaves of the elephant ears seemed to twitch, listening, as his footsteps scraped unsteadily up the path, past the sundial and palely glimmering statues, past the solar lanterns fuzzily glowing.

The shadows cast by the jacaranda stretched chill and dark in the warm summer evening, but the darkness edging his vision had nothing to do with the deepening night. There was blood in his eyes now; he wiped at it uncertainly.

Logan reached the top of the long, shallow garden steps. The back entrance of Constantine House loomed before him, and he staggered forward, feeling for his keys. He leaned against the door, resting his head on the painted surface, fumbling in his pockets. He pushed a key into the lock; it turned, and the door swung open, spilling him into the hallway.

Half blind with blood and pain, he wove his way down the hallway toward the main exhibit room and his office. His foot caught on the Oriental runner and he went sprawling. Somewhere in the distance an alarm bell was clanging. He opened his eyes. Dimly, as though looking through a telescope, he could see the cool white marble face of Kwan Yin gazing down at him. She held a little vase, pouring nothingness out over his pounding head. But it wasn't nothingness. It was nectar. Invisible nectar to feed the hungry ghosts.

Far, far at the other end of the telescope, the serene face of Kwan Yin receded, grew tinier and tinier…until at last it pinched out like a match spark in the night.

* * *

_He was chuckling, a deep, sexy sound as he pushed Logan back on the satiny cushions. Was this for real? Was he going to go through with it? Logan blinked up as his tie was unfastened, tossed aside, his shirt unbuttoned, laid wide. The evening breeze—scented of smog and jasmine—felt cool against his overheated skin, like the lightest breath. Unlike their own breathing, which was hot and heavy and strained sounding. Gasps and groans that were pure skin flick. For a moment Logan was thrown out of the mood, his normal self-consciousness and reticence reasserting themselves. _

_He narrowed his eyes, trying to see the other's face in the summer darkness, but a warm weight lowered itself beside him. Their mouths locked; they were rubbing against each other. _

_Oh. That felt good. That stiff length of soft skin and hardness—hard as bone—as desire throbbed through Logan, his heartbeat echoing through his body. So much sensation at once. It was overwhelming…but good. Warm breath and the tang of sweat on clean skin, the tickle of chest hair against his nipples, the glide of muscles as powerful arms pulled him close, legs wrapping around his own. Yes, it was really happening, and he wanted it to happen. He was happy to let go, losing his doubts, his concerns, his anxieties, because this just felt right. And he refused to second-guess himself, to freeze up. He had waited a long time for this._

_A long time. A lifetime. _

_Because this was Dak. Dak. His heart seemed to swell with emotion, happiness filling his chest because it was Dak with him. Together. The way they were meant to be. Finally… _

Logan's lashes stirred.

He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the cop's hard face. He wasn't sure how he knew the man beside his bed was a cop…he didn't know him.

Or did he?

He was big, tan, tall, broad, and muscular. Like a bull. One of those beautiful sleek, powerful bulls they use in bullfighting. Like Isidore Bonheur's sculptures. Beautiful but fierce features…Brown-dark hair, hard hazel eyes, and a thin mouth that looked inclined to sarcastic asides.

Even on that first glimpse under the fluttering of eyelids, Logan felt a jolt of alarm, the knowledge that something was seriously wrong. He opened his mouth and a funny sound came out. Then another face slid into view. A woman's face, calm and professional. A nurse. She said soothingly, "It's all right, Mr. Mitchell. You're going to be perfectly all right now."

She sounded very sure of it, and he relaxed. He did feel all right. He felt warm and floating…relieved that the hard, unfriendly face had gone. Even happy. He'd been dreaming about… He'd been dreaming. It was confused and faraway now. He let it go. Let everything go.

The second time was the real awakening. He opened his eyes with a start. There was another nurse at his bedside, and she said something to him, something calming, something reassuring. He responded. Things got a little fuzzy and then sharpened again. His room seemed full of people, and a doctor was there asking him questions.

It was…confusing. Tiring. His head ached. A lot.

"What happened to me?" he mumbled.

"You've got a concussion, Mr. Mitchell."

He thought that over. It wasn't an answer, was it? Or was it? "How?" he asked.

"You were injured during a robbery."

A robbery. Like…a mugging? He couldn't seem to remember, although it didn't seem like the kind of thing one would forget. It was all very bewildering. He wanted to go back to sleep.

"I don't remember," he said, and his eyelids drifted shut.

The next time he opened his eyes, the bull—the cop—was back.

The thin mouth curled into an unfriendly smile. "Well, Logan, we meet again."

"Yes," Logan said, trying to focus. His vision was off. "Do I know you?"

There was silence. The hazel eyes narrowed. "Are you saying you don't?"

Logan's heart began to pound. "No."

"No…?"

"I don't know you."

Another silence. Another smile—a rather cynical one. "Is that so?"

"Should I?" Logan managed. His temples were now starting to pound in time with his heart. All at once he felt very ill.

"What _do _you remember?"

"I…" Logan stopped. He had the sensation of sand sucking away beneath his feet. "Who _are _you?" His voice sounded faint and faraway even to himself.

The other laughed, and then the dark face re-formed itself in a sneer. "Honest to God. You've got to be kidding. You're not seriously going to try and pull _that_?"

Logan stared at him; he couldn't think of anything to say even if he could have forced words out over his rising panic. This couldn't be happening. This… Something was wrong. And he could not let this guy, whoever he was, know how very wrong things were—that much he knew instinctively.

"I think you should go," he said.

"Oh, you do?" Unimpressed, the cool eyes studied him. "Why? If you don't know who I am?"

Logan said honestly, "Because I don't like you."

Another one of those hard laughs. "I see you do remember something. What else do you remember?"

Logan opened his mouth. Nothing came to him. This was _impossible. _

Wait. He knew…the nurse had called him "Mr. Mitchell" and this idiot had called him "Logan." And the doctor had said…something about a mugging.

"It's… I know who I am. But…some…details are…vague."

"How convenient." Unfriendly mockery. "Well, let me refresh your memory. I'm Detective James Diamond. LAPD Robbery and Homicide Division." Diamond pulled a flat wallet-looking thing out of his jacket and flashed a very large, very official-looking badge in front of Logan's nose.

Logan narrowed his eyes. This made sense up to a point. He had been knocked out—in a robbery—so it was reasonable that the police would interview him. Right? But Detective Diamond was acting like Logan was the criminal, and clearly they had some kind of history.

And _that _was very hard to believe. Logan doubtfully studied Diamond's face. Logan was a law-abiding person. He knew that about himself. He had no doubt whatsoever on that score. Maybe he couldn't remember everything, but he knew he was not the kind of person who got into trouble with the law.

Right?

And anything else was out of the question.

_Ah_. So that was an additional something he now knew about himself. He liked guys. He was…gay. And comfortable with the idea.

But maybe Diamond didn't like guys who liked guys? Maybe that was the problem with James Diamond. Although how would he know about Logan's sexual preferences? Logan couldn't imagine him confiding such a thing to…well, really to anyone. Nor did Diamond seem like the kind of guy anyone would want to confide in. Even had he been Logan's type. Which he wasn't. Even if Logan couldn't quite remember what his type was, he was quite sure Diamond was not it.

"Is your memory coming back?" Diamond inquired.

"I was knocked out."

"Oh right. And now you have amnesia. That's the story?"

Diamond did not like him either. That was clear. And Logan did not feel well enough to deal with it. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Said, "Can we…talk about it later?"

"You're not curious about what happened to you? I'd think you'd be very curious…since you can't remember anything, right?"

Logan watched him. "I was mugged?"

"Try again."

Logan tried again. "I was…robbed." Diamond was from robbery and homicide, so that was a safe bet.

His thinking processes must have been transparent, because Diamond said slowly, "You're guessing. _Or _you're pretending to guess."

God. This idiot was too much. Logan closed his eyes. He couldn't deal with this right now.

Silence.

When the silence stretched—when Diamond didn't go away— Logan opened his eyes and surprised an odd expression on the detective's face. Mostly suspicion, or maybe wariness, but there was some other emotion that Logan couldn't read. It vanished the moment Diamond saw that Logan's eyes were open.

"Why don't I help you out with a few points? Your name's Logan Mitchell. You don't like to be called 'Logie'. You're twenty-five years old, unmarried, a native of Minnesota. You studied the career of doctor, but you have not practiced it, instead you took the job of curator at Constantine House. Is this ringing any bells?"

Logan licked his lips. There was a horrible taste in his mouth and his head was pounding sickly. He knew he didn't want to hear anything more. He knew he needed to.

"You've been curator there for a little over two years—during which time the museum has lost slightly over a hundred thousand dollars worth of antiquities and art objects."

Diamond paused politely. Logan moved his head in slight negation. He couldn't have spoken even if he'd known what to say. His heart was thudding as though he'd found himself cornered by an attack dog—which was kind of how he felt. Diamond wasn't quite baring his teeth, but somehow the effect was the same.

"Two nights ago, for reasons known only to you, you went down to the grotto in the back of the museum garden and, to all appearances, surprised thieves in the process of removing a priceless, tenth-century painted mural."

Tenth century. A very bad year—all one hundred of them. The "Leaden Century" as described by Cardinal Baronius. The darkest of the Dark Ages.

"What was a priceless artifact doing in a grotto in the back of a garden?"

Diamond ignored that feeble protest. "Apparently, you were struck over the head and left unconscious while the thieves made off with the wall painting—at which point you regained consciousness, made your way back to the museum, and triggered the alarms by not disarming the security system when you let yourself inside the back door."

As Diamond spoke, Logan had a dizzying and fleeting impression of images. A small cave…flashing shadows…voices echoing in argument…the delicate lines and muted colors of a painting…two riders on horseback…Chinese, yes. A tomb painting…yes. He did remember…

He remembered…something.

It took a few seconds to absorb the implications of Diamond's flat pronouncement.

"You don't think that's what happened?"

"I think it's convenient. Like your amnesia."

Logan let that sink in too. He had the disconcerting sensation of trying to feel his way through the smoke.

"You think I was involved in the robbery?" he managed at last.

"Were you?"

"No! Of course not."

"I thought you couldn't remember?"

Logan tried to sit up. Not a good idea. Quite a bad idea, actually. Despite the railing, he nearly overturned right out of the narrow hospital bed. His stomach overturned too as his brain seemed to slam the roof of his skull. Dimly, he was aware of Diamond grabbing him and putting him back against the pillows. Diamond said something to him, but he couldn't make it out. Maybe Diamond rang for help, because he could hear a buzzer going off. Logan felt sick and woozy and cold all the way through. He needed to make Diamond understand, needed to convince him, and he already knew that was going to be a hopeless cause. Diamond's mind was made up. He believed Logan was guilty.

Then the room was full of people. There seemed to be a lot of noise and activity. Somewhere behind the wall of sound, he could hear Detective Diamond protesting—and being overridden. Logan put a hand to his head, touching some kind of bandage; his skull felt like it was about to split in half. Someone leaned over him; there was pinch in his arm, and suddenly the commotion faded out.

It was quiet again. Warm. Dark. There was black tide rushing toward him and he stepped out to meet it.

* * *

_Mouths locked, their cocks awkward, poking, stiff as they moved against each other. A slow wriggle that turned into humping—uncomfortable, embarrassing—but then slowly, rhythmically finding themselves in step, moving faster, faster, picking up a frantic kind of speed. No longer awkward or strange, just give-and-take, a lovely reciprocity. He could hear the hard, steady pounding of the heart beating against his own. A husky voice speaking against his ear… The words were lost. But that was all right. Even without the words, this was what he had been waiting for, what he had wanted for so long. _

_Why had he been afraid of this? Why had he thought this wasn't possible? _

"Dak?"

He woke, startled, to sterile silence. Had he spoken aloud?

"So, Professor Peabody, I guess your memory is coming back?"

_Professor Peabody? _He opened his eyes.

Blue sky and clouds. That was nice. Strange but nice. Ah. Fluorescent lights behind decorative diffuser panels. He turned his head—very carefully. Medical paraphernalia…and a face he'd hoped he'd dreamed up. Although…given his most recent dreams, maybe not.

Detective Diamond was at his bedside once more, faithful as any lover. Well, he'd known that reprieve couldn't last. Diamond had been a no-show yesterday evening, but here he was bright and early, as though standing in for Logan's nearest and dearest. That was unsettling, now that Logan thought about it.

"Why isn't anyone here?" Logan asked.

"I'll try not to take that personally."

"I mean…my…"

"Your?"

But Logan had already figured it out. There wasn't anyone. No family. Friends… He looked doubtfully at Diamond. Those hazel eyes that didn't seem to miss anything. Even if Logan had a crowd of friends queuing up outside the room, Diamond would not be letting them in till he got whatever it was he wanted from Logan.

Which was what? A confession of guilt?

When Logan didn't speak, Diamond said, "I guess you're wondering where Dak is?"

"Dak?"

The flash of impatience was almost concealed. Not quite. "You woke up asking for him. Now you're pretending you don't know who he is?"

He had to tread warily here. "I was half asleep."

"You're trying to tell me you don't remember Dak?"

Dak. Did he know who Dak was? He couldn't picture him. And yet the name seemed imprinted on his consciousness. Too important to forget.

And yet he _had _forgotten.

Logan's stomach knotted with tension. He was sliding out onto some very thin ice; he could feel the chill. What division did Diamond work for? Robbery and…homicide? Was that what he'd said? Logan couldn't remember. But there was something about Dak. He could feel it. Something bad. Something too painful to bear.

"Who is he?"

"Dak Zevon? He's the great-great-grandson of MacBride Zevon."

Logan must have looked blank, because Diamond's sarcastic mouth quirked and he said, "Captain MacBride Zevon. The founder of Constantine House. The salty old sea dog who ripped off all those treasures from foreign climes and dragged them home to Southern California."

"What is Dak to me?"

Diamond's slanted eyebrows rose. "Good question. For one thing, he's your employer. Well, one of them. He's on the trustee committee for the museum. And"—he seemed to be scanning Logan's face closely—"you were college roommates and best friends."

"What else?"

"You tell me."

Logan stared. Diamond had a thin, cruel face, he thought. His eyes were wintry, like old ice.

"Has something happened to him?"

"Like what?"

The tension knotting Logan's muscles seemed to wrench tighter. He was afraid now—starting to shake with it.

"Like…something bad." He blurted, "Is he dead?"

Diamond laughed. "Worse than that. He's married."

* * *

_**I Hope You Like The Story! =D**_


	2. Chapter 2

**_I Don't Own Anything!_**

**_Thanks to: Stranger In Training, Layra, LittleWing, Melody, AureaSE for review! _****_And thanks to all who favorite/follow/read the story, it means a lot to me that you gave it a chance! _****_THANKS, THANKS, THANKS! XD_**

* * *

**_REMEMBER THE TIME_**

**Chapter Two**

"You really don't remember anything, dude?" Carlos shouted.

He was a smaller than Logan, with dark brown eyes and black hair, tanned skin gave him an appearance of Latino. Apparently, he and Logan were great friends; he had turned up at the hospital to collect him and was now flying him home in his green vintage MG TF. He drove well, if terrifyingly fast.

Logan hedged, calling over the rush of wind, "It's coming back."

"But you remember me?"

"Sort of."

Not really, if he was brutally honest. He had been relieved to find that he did apparently have friends. His hospital stay, though relatively brief, had been lonely and nerve-racking till Carlos had shown up claiming long acquaintance. Logan had to take his word for it. He liked him, though. Liked his directness, liked his easy acceptance of his plight. He could believe they were friends even if he couldn't recall that friendship.

Carlos laughed now at Logan's obvious discomfort. "In that case, I guess your trust is flattering." He spared him a glance—Logan wished he wouldn't, given the bat-out-of-hell speed they were traveling at down the 210. Having just escaped the hospital, he definitely didn't want to wind up there again anytime soon. So there was something else he now knew about himself. He didn't like taking chances.

"Anything you want to stop for on the way? Kendall is stocking the pantry for you, so you'll be set for the next few days."

Kendall Knight, Logan had already gathered, was Carlos' loving couple. He had no recollection of him either. He had no recollection of anyone, though there was no organic reason for this lapse according to the doctors. He remembered the year, the month, and who was president. He remembered who won the fourth round at Wimbledon; he remembered seeing _Duplicity_—although he couldn't remember the circumstances of seeing the film.

He remembered pretty much everything, provided it had no personal connection to himself. Which indicated, according to the hospital's resident psychiatrist, that his memory loss was psychosomatic. Amnesia, as it turned out, pretty much only happened in books and movies. If Logan wasn't remembering, it was because he didn't want to remember.

Either that or, as Detective James Diamond suggested, Logan was faking.

"I just want to get home," Logan answered. He had no appetite. The hot summer wind blowing against his face was making his head hurt, although he should have been sufficiently medicated.

"Coming right up!" Carlos pressed the gas and Logan closed his eyes.

* * *

Constantine House was located in La Cañada at the junction between the 210 and 2 freeways. Built in 1880 by retired sea captain MacBride Zevon, the Victorian mansion overlooked ten acres of live-oak forest and a series of carefully cultivated gardens.

Logan had been hoping that his first sight of the house might trigger his memories, but though he recognized that it was a charming architectural hodgepodge of styles and influences, it did not resonate with him personally. It might have been the first time he laid eyes on the ornate brick chimneys, fish-scale shingles, stained-glass windows, curved wood brackets, and corner turret crowned with an enormous copper fleur-de-lis that defined the grand old Victorian.

"I don't live _there_, do I?" he asked as the MG TF wound up the camellia-lined drive.

Carlos shook his head. "You live in a cottage in the back. Did you want to stop?"

He should, of course. He should go straight to the museum. At the very least, he needed to know what was going on with the investigation from the perspective of the other victims, but even more than information, he craved silence, privacy. He'd been under a magnifying glass from the moment he recovered consciousness, and he already knew enough about himself to know that he was not comfortable with this much attention.

"I'll see how I feel later."

Carlos nodded and they sped past the purple-colored house with the colored windows shining like jewels in the bright sunlight. With the jacaranda trees in full purple blossom, it looked like a fantasy landscape.

It seemed strangely unpopulated too.

"Is the museum open?"

Carlos replied, "Nine to five, every day except Christmas. Parking two dollars."

"Is it closed while the police are investigating the robbery?"

"Not that I know of." Carlos shot him a quizzical look.

"It seems a little…deserted."

"It's not exactly Disneyland, you know."

"I suppose not."

Was the museum a fiscally sound enterprise? He had to wonder.

The drive wound behind the mansion, past the statuary and "ancient" garden and boxwood maze. Carlos turned off from the main drive and headed down a small side road. Logan sighted a diminutive two-story California bungalow built in the Craftsman style: dark wood shingles and multipaned windows, sloping roof, pale stone chimney, tapered porch posts.

"Here we are. Not a scratch on you. Well, at least no more scratches than you left the hospital with." Carlos pulled to a neat stop on the half-moon drive in front of the house and grinned at him.

"Thanks. Really. I appreciate it. I'm just feeling a little…"

"Fragile?" Carlos patted his knee and then opened his door.

Logan followed him more slowly up the stone stairs. The front door was unlocked, and they went inside the bungalow.

His immediate impression was of lemon oil and fresh flowers. The door opened onto a small living room with a hardwood floor, coffered ceiling, and a large stone fireplace. The furniture was tasteful and comfortable. Earth tones and cherrywood. Botanical prints were artfully arranged on one wall. There were a number of silver-framed photos on the low credenza. Logan recognized Carlos among the other strangers captured for posterity.

Every item in the room seemed handpicked: an art nouveau wall sconce, a wrought-iron umbrella stand, etc. He looked around, hoping something would click…but nothing did. It was a pretty little house—a showpiece—but it could have belonged to anyone.

An arched doorway led into the kitchen, where Kendall was putting groceries away. He was tall and thin with blondish brownish hair and green eyes. He came to greet them, kissing Carlos' lips lightly and hugging Logan hard.

"Welcome home my friend!"

Logan hugged him back—uncomfortable but grateful; Kendall hugged like he meant it.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good," he assured him. And if he said it often enough it might eventually come true.

Kendall and Carlos exchanged looks. Carlos said, "He still doesn't remember anything."

"_Nothing_?"

Logan began to qualify, awkward with this. With them knowing so much about him when he knew nothing. "It's not that I don't remember. It's that everything is sort of jumbled." Plus he didn't remember.

"Gosh," said Kendall. "You mean you still can't recall what happened the night the mural was stolen?"

Logan shook his head.

"_Nothing_?"

He shook his head again.

"Yeeouch," said Kendall.

"You said it." That was Carlos. He and Kendall were exchanging those meaningful—but indecipherable—looks again. It made Logan uneasy. As though he wasn't uneasy enough.

"If you'll excuse me, I think I'll change." Why was he asking their permission to change his clothes? It was bizarre to feel like a stranger in his own life. Yet he did.

He left them to it, their muted conversation following him down the hallway though the words were lost. Perhaps just as well.

William Morris olive leaf wallpaper, a Stickley library table, a New Haven Clock Co. shelf clock. The house was filled with a small fortune in antiques. His own, or did they belong to the museum? A nice perk for the curator of Constantine House if the bungalow came furnished with these lovely objets d'art.

And why was it that he could remember the name of the manufacturer of a 1904 clock but not the name of two of his closest friends?

This was his home. Presumably, it reflected his taste to some extent. It seemed comfortable, pleasant enough—immaculate. Not so much as a newspaper on a table or a coffee mug in the sink disturbed the magazine layout perfection. Was that because he was a neat freak or because someone had tidied up before he got out of the hospital?

Studying the dust-free tabletop, he wondered if the police had searched his home. If so, there was no sign, no spilled fingerprint powder, no emptied drawers or ransacked cabinets. But perhaps he had his friends to thank for that.

At the foot of the staircase was a framed picture of the house floor plan and next to that a framed black-and-white picture of the original house in 1908. The bungalow didn't look much different now, although the plants in the garden were much larger. He examined the floor plan. Four rooms on the first floor: dining room, living room, study, kitchen. Two bedrooms upstairs. It was like a doll's house.

Or a diorama. He went upstairs, unbuttoning his shirt. His bedroom was as clean and impersonal as the rest of the house. A brass bed, ceiling fan with etched globe lights, a folding floor screen featuring a doubtful frog gazing up at a bland heron. Again, not so much as a stray shoe or comb marred the perfection.

He tossed the shirt into the laundry, opened the closet, and blinked. His clothes hung in two neatly laundered and pressed rows—grouped by style and color. Could he really be this organized? It didn't seem…natural.

He selected a brown polo shirt and a pair of stone-colored chinos. He didn't appear to own a pair of simple Levi's.

The window across from the bed looked out toward Constantine House, the half-raised blinds knocking gently in the breeze. Through the open window, he glimpsed the ornate chimneys and gables of the main house behind the purple blossoms of the jacaranda.

All at once Logan felt very tired…deflated. The bed looked comfortable, and he thought briefly about lying down. There was so much to absorb, and none of it made sense. Or at least, nothing he learned made him feel better. None of it made him feel like… himself. Whoever that was.

Turning from the temptation of the bed, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over the dresser. He stared in fascination. If he'd expected some kind of surprised recognition now that he was on his home turf again, he was doomed to disappointment. If anything…he kept expecting someone… taller, maybe more tan. Just… different. Why? What could that possibly mean?

What he saw was a man a little above average height, decent build, brown hair cut short, brown-chocolate eyes that matched his hair and pale skin. He looked…ordinary. Like anyone, only…primmer. Yes. Like a librarian. Well, not that look like a librarian more like a nerd. He hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected to look…so neat. Well, he did need a shave, but…he was so…conservative-looking. Was that who he was? He didn't feel that…controlled. And the only clothes he had was not helping, he really needed at least one pair of jeans and a new hairstyle.

He pushed the oval swivel mirror away and went downstairs. In the living room, he paused to examine the array of tastefully framed photographs on polished tabletops. Who the hell _were _all these people?

Carlos and Kendall were talking quietly. They broke off when they spotted him.

"Everything all right, dude?" Carlos asked too cheerfully.

"I… Yeah."

He could feel them making the effort not to look at each other. Kendall said, "There's chicken and wild rice casserole in the fridge. All you have to do is heat it."

"Thanks." He gazed at them rather helplessly. "Look, it's weird, I know. But there are some photos in the living room. Would you be able to tell me who the people in the photographs are?"

"Of course!" Carlos said quickly. "I think we know most of your friends."

He followed them to the living room. Kendall picked up the largest frame, a formal photograph of a couple in outdated wedding clothes.

"Those were your parents," Carlos said. Apologetically, he added, "They're no longer alive."

Breaking it gently. But he already knew that. He'd got that much in the hospital and he had the vague memory of them died in a car accident when he was in college. No siblings either.

And so it went. "_This is Camille Roberts and Jo Taylor at Alpine Village Oktoberfest. This is Jett Stetson, Ken, me, and you at the Abbot Kinney Festival two years ago. This is…_"

With the exception of Kendall and Carlos, he didn't recognize anyone. And yet, nothing rang false. The names were even vaguely familiar—as though these were people he had known a long time ago but couldn't quite put a face or voice to.

What did it mean? Did he really not want to remember?

Carlos picked up another photo and offered it. "This is Sortilege." It was a photo of him and a horse. A big, black, ugly thoroughbred. "He's yours."

"He's my what?"

"Your horse. You stable him down at Griffith Park."

Kendall said, "He was a racehorse, but he couldn't run when people were watching him."

Logan laughed.

"Seriously. He was like a rocket on the track—provided the stands were empty."

"He has issues," agreed Carlos. "So you bought him."

"How could I afford an ex-racehorse?"

Carlos shrugged. "You knew his owner. You were in the same college." His gaze was curious. "You belong to some private riding group. You meet every Thursday evening down at Griffith Park for a sunset ride, and then you wind up at a Mexican restaurant for chips and margaritas."

He closed his eyes, trying to picture it—feel it. Nothing. _Nada._

When he opened his eyes, they were watching him anxiously. He nodded at the photo of a bit younger version of himself and a tall brunette man of about the same age.

"That's Dak," Carlos said without inflection.

So _that _was Dak. He stared, fascinated. Dak was handsome, no argument there. Like the leading man in a glitzy soap opera. He had a wonderful smile, wide and warm. Logan felt zero gazing at that white flash of teeth.

"And he's an old friend?"

Did Carlos hesitate? "That's right. You roomed together at college. He 'helped' you get this job."

"And he's MacBride Zevon's great-great-grandson?"

"Yep."

He wasn't wrong. Carlos' voice was brisk and colorless. Either he didn't like Dak or he didn't like…the way Logan felt about Dak.

How _did _Logan feel about Dak? Why couldn't he feel anything? How long was this emotional blackout going to last?

"And he's on the museum board of directors?"

"Right."

Carlos didn't like Dak. Logan had been right, even if he wasn't sure how. "And Dak and I are…close?"

Carlos certainly hesitated then. "At one time. I don't know how things are now. You don't talk a lot about him." He added, "But then you never did."

Logan bit his lip, thinking. "Was I…? Am I seeing anyone? At all?" It was the _at all _that probably gave him away. It was pretty obvious he wasn't seeing anyone on a regular basis, since no one had turned up at the hospital to hold his hand.

"Not steadily. You go out with friends. You have an active social life."

What did that mean? Book clubs and blind dates?

Kendall volunteered, "You signed up for one of those dating services, I think."

"I… did."

"You go out a lot. Though usually not more than once with the same guy."

Logan absorbed that slowly.

"That's your choice, mostly," Carlos put in.

He had the feeling Carlos was trying to tell him something about himself, but Logan couldn't for the life of him think what it was. That he was hard to please? Hard to get along with? A workaholic? His life sounded…lonely. It felt lonely.

He looked at the other photos. Mostly group pictures. Dak—a bit more adult Dak—was in a couple of those groups.

Logan's face must have revealed some of what he was feeling, though he thought he was hiding it well enough. "You should lie down, Logan," Kendall said, putting a hand on his arm.

"Yes," Carlos agreed. "You're supposed to get a lot of rest." He patted him too. Apparently Logan was making them nervous. They were going to begin fluttering in a minute.

"And after you've rested, you can have a nice supper and…"

"And an early night," Carlos concluded.

They were trying to help obviously. Not their fault that he was feeling worse with every kind word.

"Yes, I will." He gathered energy for the social ritual, thanking them for everything—uncomfortably aware that there was probably more to thank them for than he knew. He promised to rest and eat and thanked them some more, ushering them gently toward the front door and then out to the tidy front garden.

"Call if you need anything," Carlos told him.

"Are you sure you want to stay here on your own tonight?" Kendall worried. "We've got plenty of room, you know."

Carlos said quickly, "That's an idea."

And it was. A bad one. "I'm sure," Logan said. "I'm fine. I'm looking forward to—I just need a little time on my own."

They appeared sympathetic and uneasy, but they went—reluctantly—with many admonitions to take it easy and not worry and rest and eat.

At last they had tucked themselves into Carlos' MG TF and were speeding away as though auditioning for stunt drivers in an action flick.

Logan watched them go, and when they were out of sight, he found his keys and went out through the garden, walking slowly up to the main house.

* * *

A portrait of Captain MacBride Zevon hung in the entrance hall of Constantine House. At the time of his portrait sitting, the captain had been in his sixties. He'd been around the world several times—and it appeared to have been lousy weather all the way. Beneath the captain's cap, pale blue eyes stared down any landlubber who thought he was getting into the museum without the price of an admission ticket. The snowy hair and long white beard, the ruddy cheeks and small mouth, gave the old man the appearance of a piratical Santa.

Beneath the portrait was a reception desk, and at the reception desk sat a girl scowling at the phone ringing in front of her.

She was about twenty. Her hair was wavy and blonde and her eyes were large and light-brown. She looked like something crafted in a Dutch toy shop… too perfect to be real. Like a little doll.

As Logan watched her make a petulant snatch for the phone, her name came to him. Mercedes. He felt a rush of relief. It was coming back. His memory was sluggishly starting to fill in the blanks. Mercedes Griffin.

_Mercedes,_ _The conceited Mercedes_. He didn't care for her, but she was the daughter of one of the trustee members. Arthur Griffin. Mercedes had been hired as an intern for the summer, but that had been a washout and Logan had relegated her to answering phones and filing.

It was not a popular decision.

Catching Logan's approach out of the corner of her eye, Mercedes glanced up. She looked startled to see him. And none too thrilled.

He managed a perfunctory smile and a "carry on" nod, as he continued to his office—and that was the second flash of memory. He remembered where his office was.

Or maybe it was just common sense, because there weren't a lot of options. The bottom floors of the old mansion had been converted to exhibit rooms, and they were stuffed with…well, junk.

A lot of junk. Some of it relatively valuable, like the collection of jade trinkets, some of it, like the mummified crocodile, more appropriate for a white elephant sale.

He turned left at the marble statue of Kwan Yin. He passed a carefully preserved eight-feet-long giant squid, a battered mummy case, and a collection of Alutiiq masks.

It was not your ordinary Los Angeles cultural attraction, certainly. Although it seemed an accurate representation of the mess his life was currently in.

Logan turned down another hall decorated—if one was willing to use the term loosely—with a series of grim paintings by a contemporary of Hans Holbein the Younger who made Hans's work look like the stuff of Thomas Kincaid.

His office—LOGAN MITCHELL was blazoned on a small brass plaque beside the door—was at the end of the hall. The door was not locked. Had he left it unlocked or had the police invaded his sanctum? Given the instinctive unease he felt on finding it unlocked, he suspected it was not usual for him to leave his door open. It was a good bet the police had been there before him.

Pushing open the door, he found himself looking into a large and lovely sitting room that had been converted into an office. And a nice office at that. The furniture was antique but comfortable. Large windows overlooked the camellia garden.

He knew, without having to look, that beyond the camellias was a small grassy knoll. Stone steps built into the hillside led down to the grotto, which had once housed the Chinese wall mural.

A strange feeling swept over him and he reached for the desk chair, sitting down heavily.

After a few seconds he felt better and looked around. On the walls were several large photos of people he didn't recognize. Taken at museum functions, he guessed, judging by his own smiling presence in several pictures.

His gaze fell on the desk before him, taking in the old-fashioned bronze desk set, which included an inkwell. Surely he was not some kind of crank who wrote letters by quill pen? But no, his laptop sat right there in the middle of the cleared desk.

He stared at it for some time, feeling vaguely queasy. Not that he would be stupid enough to have anything on his laptop he shouldn't, but…it still gave him a weird sensation to think anyone—or everyone—had had access to his private communications for the past three days.

After a moment or two he moved to open a desk drawer and found it locked. He checked his key ring and the key was there. He unlocked the desk and found everything in its place. If the police had searched his office, they had been discreet about it.

Removing an ebony letter opener, he began to go slowly through his mail.

There were a couple of résumés, an invitation to a charity function at the Getty, a notice of an art gallery exhibition—and a ton of junk mail that Ms. Griffin was supposed to weed out for him.

He tossed the mail back into his tray to deal with when he felt more on the ball and began to go through his desk drawers in earnest. Surely something here would trigger a few recollections or at least supply an answer or two. He came across a foldout brochure for the museum. It looked fairly old—and, as surmised, the date was 1997.

Well before his time. There was a small colored photo of the grotto at the bottom of the garden. He could just make out the faded tints of the stolen mural in the background.

For a long time he stared at the photo. Why the hell couldn't he remember what had happened? It would be one thing if he'd injured his brain, but the doctors said there was no physical reason for this blank.

At last Logan dropped the brochure back into the hanging file. As he did, he noticed a couple of snapshots loose at the bottom. He drew them out and stared. Dak Zevon on what appeared to be his wedding day. Dak, beyond handsome in a severe black tux. Dak obligingly nibbling wedding cake, kissing the bride, and posing with best man Logan.

Logan stared at the photos, at his own emptily smiling face. His heart began to thud in sick tattoo. He felt ill. Automatically, he tossed the photos back into the file, closed the drawer, and locked it. What was the matter with him leaving those pictures where anyone could find them? What was the matter with him keeping those pictures at all?

He rested his face in his hands. His head ached. What a bad idea this had been. He wasn't ready to deal with this—whatever _this _was.

But it was very obvious what this was. Pictures of his married best friend. Erotic dreams of his married best friend? It was pathetic. Even if he couldn't remember any of it, it was pathetic.

There was a noise from the hallway. Logan looked up. A tall brunette man stood framed in the doorway. He was a bit tanned, his green eyes in his handsome face. He wore a baby blue polo shirt and jeans.

_Dak_.

* * *

**_Hope You Like! =D_**


	3. Chapter 3

_**I Don't Own Anything!**_

_**Thanks to: Carphanie and AureaSE for the review =D And anyone who has read the story! THANKS A LOT! XD**_

* * *

_**REMEMBER THE TIME**_

**Chapter Three**

"I didn't expect you in today," Dak said as Logan rose automatically. "Shouldn't you be taking it easy?"

Dak had a light, pleasant voice, and Logan suddenly remembered that he'd sung in the men's chorus at college. His memory was definitely returning, and that was the good news. The bad news was he wasn't ready to face Dak. He'd wanted a little warning.

"I… Thanks," Logan said disjointedly. "But I can't just sit around."

"I don't know why not, with what you've been through. How are you feeling?" Dak still stood in the doorway as though waiting for permission to enter Logan's office. No. As though he felt a need to keep distance between them.

Logan felt his face heat, and he wasn't even sure why. "I'm fine."

"I'll take your word for it." Dak's smile was quizzical. "Then you do remember what happened?"

How would Dak know about Logan's memory lapse? But of course. Detective Diamond would have been in contact with his employers—in this case the museum's board of trustees. Dak would know that Logan was claiming amnesia. He'd probably heard what Detective Diamond thought of that claim.

"No," he added in his own defense. "It's not unusual to forget events just prior to a head injury."

"I guess that's true. But that cop…said that you said you didn't remember…anything."

"There are some blank spaces."

Dak was frowning, watching him closely. "Like what?"

"Just…" Logan stared at the gold band glinting on Dak's hand and abruptly lost his train of thought.

"Just…?"

What had they been talking about? Suddenly he couldn't remember what he had wanted to say—how odd was that? It wasn't as though he hadn't had time to get used to the idea that Dak was married.

"Logie," Dak said softly, and Logan's gaze lifted to meet Dak's. He remembered the cop— Diamond —saying he didn't like to be called "Logie," but Dak used the word like a pet name, and Logan felt no objection. How would Diamond know such a thing anyway?

"Sorry. What?"

"You shouldn't have come in so soon after being released from the hospital. The board is going to think you're well enough to face up to some kind of inquiry."

Logan's brows drew together. "I'm more than happy to talk to the board if that's what they want."

But Dak was shaking his head. "Bad idea. Better to let the police figure out what's going on. Especially if you're not clear on the details."

It took him a few seconds to work out what Dak seemed to be saying. "Do you think _I _had something to do with these thefts?"

Dak looked taken aback. "Of course not. But I'm not the problem. There are two other trustees."

Arthur Griffin and Gustavo Rocque. But Dak was chairman, as befitted the last surviving descendant of Captain MacBride Zevon.

As though reading his mind, Dak said reluctantly, "I can't be seen to be using my influence because of our personal relationship, Logie. You know that."

"Right."

He spoke automatically, saying what was expected. But really… when the hell should one's personal relationship be taken into consideration if it wasn't when one's friend was fighting for his survival? Was it wrong to feel like maybe Dak's personal knowledge and faith in him might be expected to surface in his favor now? Was it wrong to feel a little chilled by this strict lack of bias?

Assuming Dak did really believe he was innocent and wasn't just saying so out of politeness.

Logan's mouth dried and he half stuttered, "Dak, I swear to you… I didn't have anything to do with the mural being taken. I haven't stolen a penny from the museum. I _wouldn't_."

Dak looked uncomfortable. He glanced over his shoulder as though afraid Logan's ragged voice was echoing through the museum. "I know that. I've already told you I have total faith in you."

Logan nodded. He was appalled to realize his lips were unsteady. He could not—could _not_—bear for Dak to see him cry. And apparently Dak couldn't bear it either, because he looked away. Then he stared down at his watch, saying, "Look, go home and rest. You look like death warmed over."

"I'm all right." Logan pinched the bridge of his nose hard.

There was silence but for the sprinklers outside his window jetting silver water into the bright sunlight.

"Of course you're not," Dak said softly.

Logan lowered his hand and Dak was gazing at him with an impatient blend of sympathy and affection. Before Logan could think of anything to say, Dak said in normal tones, "Damn. I'm meeting Carly for an early dinner, or I'd walk over to the bungalow with you."

For a moment Logan wasn't sure if he'd misheard that moment of tenderness or not. He gazed at Dak, who offered another flash of that white smile. "Come on, buddy boy. Get going." And as Logan gazed undecidedly at his unopened laptop, trying to choose whether to take it or leave it, "That will all wait for a day or two."

Reluctantly, Logan rose. Dak was already walking away down the hall. Logan locked his office and followed him back out past the _Ripley's Believe It or Not_-style exhibits: a stuffed kangaroo, a seven-tiered platform of antique Japanese Hina dolls, and a two-handed broadsword that was nearly as tall as a small man.

As they passed the front desk, Mercedes looked straight through Logan and gave Dak a bright smile.

"Good night, Mr. Zevon!"

"Night, sweetheart."

_Sweetheart_. Someday some unamused female was going to haul Dak up on sexual harassment charges, Logan thought with a flicker of irritation. He said nothing, suspecting this was a timeworn complaint of his. Mercedes certainly didn't seem to mind. She was still beaming after Dak when Logan glanced back from the doorway.

Upon meeting his gaze, she looked down at the papers on her desk that she had busily been pretending to shuffle at their approach.

The sunshine seemed very bright and very hot as they stood on the front steps. Logan's head was pounding quite desperately now, and he thought perhaps Dak was right about going home and lying down for the rest of the afternoon.

"Everything will work out; you'll see," Dak told him. "I don't want you to worry about anything. Just take it easy for a few days."

Logan nodded dully and Dak patted his shoulder. He went briskly down the steps and strode across the green squares of lawn to the parking lot. Logan watched him go, unmoving, and when at last he saw Dak's Lamborghini leave the parking lot, he turned and walked slowly back to the bungalow.

* * *

The mockingbird was singing as he let himself inside the silent house.

He wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at the foil-covered casserole dish. He closed the fridge.

Ridiculous to feel like this. To feel… so alone. There was an enormous difference between being alone and being lonely. The fact that he was struggling to see the difference had to be a result of his head injury. He was overtired and overmedicated and behaving like a stupid.

He left the kitchen and went into his study. A copy of Georgette Heyer's _The Masqueraders _lay on the table near the wingback chair that gazed over the garden. He picked it up and a bookmark fell out.

He glanced at the page.

_The ride at an end, it was Charles and Peter with them; they might have been blood brothers. _

He was comforted by the realization that he recognized this passage. He knew the book. It was, in fact, a favorite, one he had read many times. He was remembering, slowly but surely it was all coming back. He glanced at the bookshelf, and Heyer's romance titles were all listed there, from _A Civil Contract _to _Venetia. _

This was his home. His world. He was safe here even if he didn't yet recognize that fact.

Logan sat down in the chair, picked up _The Masqueraders_, and began to read.

* * *

_He dragged Logan's boxers down and nuzzled his crotch. Logan's heart knocked frantically at his ribs. Slowly, lingeringly, he moved his hands over the other's long, slender body—broad back, firm, muscular buttocks, hard, strong thighs. Yeah, it was a beautiful body. The sleek glide of muscles beneath tanned skin._

_A hot, wet mouth closed over his thickened, stiff cock and Logan groaned as the other—as _Dak —_began to suck. That slick heat pulled at him, drew him on, setting off a tingling at the base of his spine, tiny explosions of delighted sensation. So good. So unexpected. Logan shifted around so that their cocks were deep in each other's mouths. Hard to concentrate, though, because it felt so good and he wanted to make it just as good for…for Dak. _

_Focus. Geez. Focus. But it was hard to focus because that wicked, knowledgeable mouth was doing such delicious things to him. It was like he couldn't form his lips to make suction, let alone words. He settled for a whimper that would have embarrassed him in less naked circumstances and a kiss for that other beautiful cock. All the while those feverish lips continued to work him with tongue and breath and the rumor of teeth. Logan was shivering from toes to crown, eyes fastened shut while that wonderful, warm, wet drag went on and on, sucking and sucking until at last he was delivered, screaming tension giving way in spurts of rich, salt-sweet cream. _

Logan opened his eyes, shivering despite the day's languid heat, aware that he had come in his sleep. Beneath his pants, his boxers were wet and uncomfortable. Damn! Was he fourteen? Because that had been the last time _that _happened.

And someone was knocking at the front door.

Confused, he rose too fast of the seat where he had fallen asleep and, head swimming, went to answer that impatient summons, pulling out his shirt as he went through the kitchen and letting it hang out.

Reaching the front door, he unlocked it and pulled it open, uncomfortably aware of the little crinkles all across the bottom of his shirtfront.

Detective Diamond stood on his porch.

"I was beginning to wonder whether you'd skipped town," he said after a pause.

"I was sleeping."

Diamond didn't seem to have a response to that. "Can I come in?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Diamond's grin was unexpectedly attractive. "Sure. For now. Be easier to get it over with, wouldn't it?"

"For whom?"

The grin went a little wider and a little more dangerous. Logan sighed and moved aside. Diamond followed him into the living room.

"Nice place," Diamond said from behind Logan. He moved quietly for a big man.

"You've seen it before, haven't you?" The quality in the silence behind him made Logan turn around. Diamond was staring at him narrowly. "Are you trying to tell me you didn't search this place while I was in the hospital?"

Diamond's shoulders seemed to relax. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Nobody's searched your house. Or your office. So far. I haven't even asked for a search warrant. Yet."

"Why's that? I thought I was your number one suspect?"

"Yeah, well… I've been wrong before." His hazel gaze met Logan's levelly and then dropped to Logan's crotch. It occurred to Logan that he was standing there in sticky, wet briefs and a badly wrinkled shirt.

A strange moment passed. Logan had a vivid sense of déjà vu. He said at random, "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Sure," Diamond said genially, the acceptance surprising Logan even more than his own offer had.

"Have a seat, and I'll put a pot on."

Diamond took the leather club chair by the fireplace. "Funny how we still say that," he remarked. "Nobody puts a pot on these days."

Logan went into the kitchen and turned the coffeemaker on; then he went upstairs and changed out of his clothes yet again, this time opting for sweatpants and a T-shirt. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his flushed face and told his reflection, "You're afraid to be on your own."

When he came downstairs again Diamond was back on his feet, staring out the window at the bird-of-paradise. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Logan's footsteps and said, "I was starting to think you were trying to escape."

"Why do you keep saying things like that? I don't have any reason to flee. I haven't done anything wrong."

"How do you know if you can't remember?"

"Because I know myself."

Diamond's mouth curled in one of those sardonic smiles.

Logan bristled. "I'm starting to take this personally. Honestly am I your only suspect?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Diamond was studying him. "You're still claiming you don't remember _anything_?"

He said what he'd said to Dak only a short time earlier. "You must have spoken to my doctor. It's not unusual with head injuries to forget how the injury occurred."

"I'm not just talking about the night of the robbery."

"Then I don't know what you _are _talking about."

Diamond continued to eye him in that jaundiced way. "All right," he said at last. "I think it's time we had a little chat."

"Let's chat in the kitchen. The coffee should be about ready."

Aware that he was simply stalling, that he didn't want to have whatever conversation this was going to be, Logan turned and headed for the kitchen.

He didn't have to turn to know that Diamond followed him. The measured tread of his footsteps on the hardwood floor raised the hair on the back of Logan's neck.

The detective leaned against the long cabinet next to the breakfast nook while Logan took cups out of the cupboard. Diamond's steady, impassive gaze made him self-conscious. Logan didn't like it—and he recognized that it was out of character for him.

"How do you take it?" It was a perfectly reasonable question, and yet for some insane reason he felt the back of his neck growing warm.

It didn't help that Diamond seemed to have to make his mind up about something before answering, "Milk and sugar if you've got it."

Did he?

A quick glance in the fridge verified that he did. Kendall and Carlos had done well by him. He had enough food here to throw a dinner party, were he so inclined—and could remember whom to invite.

He quickly prepared the coffee, aware all the time that Diamond was watching him.

"So explain to me how this amnesia thing works. How is it you know your way around your kitchen and how to fix a cup of coffee, but you can't remember who I am or what you were doing Thursday night in the grotto?"

Logan carried the coffee cups to the breakfast nook. Since Diamond made no move to sit, he stood too—though on the other side of the nook—and sipped his coffee. He could practically feel the caffeine working in his bloodstream.

Diamond picked up his mug, swallowed a mouthful of coffee.

Logan said wearily, "Look…I don't know why. If you talked to my doctor, then you already know that there isn't any organic reason that I can't remember. I just… I guess I don't… want to. That's what the hospital psychiatrist suggested, anyway."

"Well, that's sure as hell convenient."

"What do you want me to say? I don't know!" Logan's voice rose and he slammed shut on it. Getting hysterical wasn't going to help.

Diamond took another swallow of coffee, watching Logan coolly over the rim.

"I want to remember," Logan said. "Not knowing what happened is driving me crazy."

"So I'm supposed to believe that you suffered traumatic shock or something that night and now you can't remember what happened?"

"I guess. I don't know."

"You're not a lot of help, Professor Peabody. But then…that's kind of your MO (Modus Operandi)."

Logan had been about to take a mouthful of coffee. He lowered his cup sharply, nearly spilling the liquid. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"About a year ago you reported a number of small thefts from the museum. I caught the case."

Diamond had already told him this much in the hospital. Obviously more was coming. Logan resisted the temptation to speak.

"This sound familiar at all?"

"No. I'd assumed I would have filed a police report at some point."

"That's right. You filed a police report. Your story was that until you began cross-referencing data from the old manual catalog system to the new computer program, you hadn't noticed that a number of small but valuable antiquities were missing from the collection. You claimed you initially thought the missing items might have been mislabeled or placed in storage. But when, after extensive searching, you were unable to locate them—and when more items disappeared—you decided that someone was stealing from the museum."

"You keep using words like _story _or _claimed_. Implying you think I'm lying."

Diamond raised his brows. He said blandly, "Let's say I reserved judgment on that point."

Logan swallowed his immediate furious response. He managed to say in an almost reasonable tone of voice, "Why would you think I lied? What would be my motive for stealing from my own museum?"

"The same as anyone's motive would be. Money. A hundred thousand dollars is over two years' salary for you. It's not _your _museum, after all. You're just an employee—like the gardener or the girl who answers the phones. And apparently there's been some discussion of replacing you. Maybe you thought you'd better—"

"_What_?"

Logan stared at him, unbelieving.

The echo of the cop's callous words seemed to reverberate through his brain. There was a strange rushing sensation in Logan's head—as though a wind tunnel had opened between his ears. The floor seemed to drop out from under his feet. Diamond grabbed his arm, and for a few odd seconds, Logan's face was pressed into the detective's starched white shirtfront. Warm cotton, some vaguely piney aftershave, and the steady pounding of Diamond's heart…

Blindly, he pushed Diamond away, feeling for the back of the wooden bench. He lowered himself awkwardly, bracing his elbows on the table and resting his forehead on his hands.

"All right," Diamond said roughly after a moment. "So maybe you didn't know that."

"Go away," Logan said from behind his hands.

"What does that solve?" The truculence in Diamond's voice was undermined by something…defensiveness? Guilt? "If I go away, I just have to come back later."

Logan struggled to control his voice. He managed, "Get out, will you?"

After a long pause, Diamond went.

* * *

_**As Always Hope You Like It! =D**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**I Don't Own Anything!**_

_**Thanks to: Stranger In Training, Carphanie, and AureaSE for the review =D And anyone who has read the story! THANKS A LOT! XD**_

_**Enjoy the story!**_

* * *

_**REMEMBER THE TIME**_

**Chapter Four**

The grotto was at the bottom of the oldest section of the garden. It was man-made, although it looked natural enough—like a small cave covered in flowering vines. Outside the entrance was a koi pond. The red and gold fish lay quietly in the bottom of the green water as Logan stood beside the pool staring into the grotto.

There wasn't much to see. Yellow and black police tape stretched across the open mouth. The interior was lined with tile and bits of colored glass that sparkled in the pale light from the solar lamps slowly winking on as the evening grew dark.

The ugly bare square where the mural had once hung was about ten feet long and six feet high. Not easy moving something of that size. It would take more than one man to get it safely down from the wall of the cave and carry it out of the grotto—and it would require a vehicle to transport it more than a few feet. The grounds were private and locked at night, so how had they done it?

Logan walked around the back of the grotto, passing through the grove of weeping willows, coming at last to a fence well concealed behind a bamboo wall. He followed the fence till he came to a padlocked gate marked EMERGENCY VEHICLE ACCESS ONLY. The gate opened onto a dirt road.

The thieves must have parked out here after the museum had closed for the evening and everyone had gone home. It was certainly quiet and deserted—even at this time of the evening.

The real question was, why wasn't there more of a security system? Who, in this day and age, relied on a padlock and a single security guard—a guard who, if Logan knew anything about it, spent most evenings watching TV in the gatehouse?

Was the responsibility for the security of the museum and grounds his alone? Had it been his decision to leave the mural essentially unprotected? If so, no wonder the board was discussing his removal.

Assuming it was true—that it wasn't something Diamond had made up to rattle him.

He'd like to believe that, but…

It had carried the ring of truth. Looking back, he thought that Diamond had probably regretted dropping that bomb. Something in his tone… some vast discomfort when he'd had to witness Logan's reaction. You'd expect a cop to be pretty hardened, but Diamond hadn't enjoyed seeing Logan poleaxed.

Which was interesting, because he didn't mind baiting Logan about suspecting him of stealing from the museum. So what had been different about telling him his job was in jeopardy?

Logan turned away from the pasture and started back up the hillside. The garden smelled wonderful at night. The camellias had no scent, but the fragrance of the heirloom roses drifted on the warm breeze. He cut across the grass to the steps. The solar lanterns threw triangles of light across the bricks. In the jacaranda trees, a mockingbird was calling.

_Chjjjj…chjjjj…chewk… _

Logan's steps faltered and he stood still.

He remembered falling on the steps, remembered the shock of seeing his own blood spattering the stones. He stopped and looked down, and sure enough there were little raindrop stains in the porous surface of the bricks. For an instant he was back there, the scent of mown grass and fresh blood in his nostrils and the call of the mockingbird in his ears.

And if he pushed a little harder… pushed past that veil of forgetfulness… what had he seen?

**The glitter of stars beyond the pale flickering of the jacaranda blossoms. He had come outside for a breath of fresh air. He often walked down to the grotto at night. He liked the silence, the peace. But it hadn't been silent. Not that night. Crickets… frogs… That was all right. But he heard voices… voices where no voices should be. The grounds were locked at night. Once in a while teenagers jumped the back fence. **

**That's what he had thought. Kids. Kids—maybe vandals. He could hear them talking as he drew near the grotto. Talking… or arguing? He drew close and he saw oversize shadows looming against the glistening walls of the cave…**

And already it was slipping away again. Like a door closing firmly in his face. This far and no further.

If only he could remember. If he could just come up with something he could give Diamond, some solid piece of evidence so that he would stop wasting time talking to Logan and start trying to find out who was behind these thefts.

There was a noise behind him. Logan whirled, ready for… he didn't know what. It had sounded like the scrape of a shoe on brick. But there was no one behind him.

The shadow swaying on the grass was from the tree limbs moving in the breeze. Right?

He stood there for a moment, watching. Nothing moved.

And if something did move, what would he do? He glanced around for something he could use to defend himself… a fallen branch, a loose brick, a rock. One thing about Constantine House, the grounds were well maintained. No weapons available unless he was going to yank a solar lantern out of the ground and try to defend himself with it.

After a long, fraught moment, Logan began to feel foolish. The mockingbird seemed to confirm this opinion, chattering at him from high in the branches above.

He turned and went quickly up the steps.

When he reached the bungalow, he reheated the casserole left by Kendall and Carlos. It was good, but he wasn't hungry. He ate a few bites, dumped the rest into the trash, and settled for a glass of milk and a couple of pain pills. His head was aching again, mostly due to rushing back to the bungalow before the bogeyman could snatch him.

Well and truly disgusted with himself, Logan retrieved his book from the study and went up to read in bed.

* * *

His dreams were strange and troubled, and despite the tablets he'd taken before bed, he began to fight his way out of sleep—which was how Logan became aware of the faint but persistent gnawing sound from beneath his open window.

In his dream, the gnawing turned into rats chewing at the wooden siding of the house… and as rats were absolutely unacceptable, Logan woke and opened his eyes.

For a moment he lay there, eyes picking out the outline of furniture silvered by moonlight.

There it was again.

A muted scratching sound.

What the hell was that?

He rose, crossing softly to the window, and looked down. A bulky figure dressed in black stood on the crescent-shaped patio busily working at getting inside the back door.

For the space of a heartbeat Logan was rooted in place, disbelieving. Disbelief gave way to alarm. He crossed to the bed, fumbled the phone. He needed light to dial, and fuzzy with concussion and pain pills, he automatically switched on the bedside lamp.

From down below came the _clang _of metal on stone, and then a sound that was probably one of the large geranium pots getting knocked over—pottery hitting hard brick. Logan got back to the window in time to see the bulky figure—ski mask concealing hair and face—racing across the grass to the outstretched shadow of the trees in the back of the house.

Logan angled around trying for a better view, but he saw no one else on the terrace. He got back over to the phone and dialed 911.

The emergency operator assured him a patrol car was in the vicinity and would reach him shortly.

Logan thanked her, hung up, and began to dress swiftly. He would need to call down to the gatehouse and let the night watchman, Bob, know that they'd had an another intruder and that the police were on the way.

As he dressed, he began to wonder. Granted, Constantine House wasn't Fort Knox, but it seemed to him that their security was being breached with alarming monotony. And why his house?

Dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and phoned Bob, but no one answered the gatehouse line. The old man was probably sleeping in front of his television.

Logan sighed, hung up, and went downstairs.

For the first time, he began to consider the thefts from the museum itself. He had assumed the items—all small enough to slip into a pocket or purse—had been taken during business hours. There was a security system, but it was outdated and it only encompassed the outside perimeter doors. But the fact that intruders were getting onto the museum grounds after hours opened another unpleasant possibility.

What if the thefts were happening after hours? What if someone was bypassing the security at the main house and getting into the museum that way?

Only four people had the access code for the outside perimeter: Bob, museum trustee Arthur Griffin, Dak, and himself.

At least… only four people were _supposed _to have the access code.

He shoved his feet into a pair of Vans and went down to the kitchen, turning on the overhead light to examine the back door. Sure enough, a perfect circle had been etched into the glass pane beside the inside doorknob. The circle must have been ready to pop out, because as Logan touched the doorknob to reassure himself it was still locked, the oval of glass fell out onto the bricks and shattered.

It glinted like broken pieces of moon on the terrace.

The hair prickled on Logan's neck. _Close. Very close_. What would have happened if he hadn't woken when he did?

But what sense did breaking into the house make?

He let himself out the front and ran down the long camellia-lined drive to the gatehouse. A marked patrol car was already sitting outside the tall iron gates, exhaust turning red in the glare of its taillights. Bob was talking to two uniformed officers. He spotted Logan.

"They're saying you called in a prowler, Mr. Mitchell?" he asked as Logan reached them.

Logan nodded, out of breath from his jog. "I tried ringing down here. Why didn't you pick up?"

Bob looked taken aback. "I guess I didn't hear the phone 'coz I was standing out here."

Logan turned to the cop who was listening to their exchange. "He—the prowler—ran toward the back of the property."

"Do you have a description of this prowler?"

Logan resisted the temptation to point out that the prowler would probably be the guy running like a bat out of hell. "Big. He was dressed in dark clothes and wearing a dark ski mask."

The second cop nodded and said to Bob, "You want to open these gates and we'll go check it out?"

"There's a gate in the back leading to the old fire access road. He'll have gone out that way."

"I'll take the front, Lewis, you take the back," the cop said to his partner.

Lewis nodded and went back to the patrol car as Bob moved to open the automatic gates.

Logan stood shivering while the tall gates slid slowly open. "He tried to get in the back door of the bungalow."

Bob said, "He must have thought nobody was home. Probably thought you were still in the hospital."

"Probably." Yes. That made sense, didn't it? Logan wished he felt convinced.

The gates open, the uniformed officer came through and followed them to the little security cart that Bob used. Logan grabbed a seat in the back and they shot away up the road, the cart engine humming as though they were off on a pleasure jaunt.

They pulled up outside the bungalow so Logan could get out. Bob eased his girth out of the little cart and led the second cop, Officer Miller, across the grass and down the hillside to the grotto.

Logan let himself back in the cottage and put the coffeemaker on. If he was going to be awake for the rest of the night, he might as well be wide awake.

Bob and Miller returned within ten minutes, and Logan led them around the back to see where the intruder had broken the glass.

"The glass is on the outside of the door." The cop was giving Logan a strange look.

"It fell out when I touched the doorknob."

"Why would you do that, sir?"

It took Logan a few seconds to understand what Officer Miller was getting at. He felt himself change color in a wave of irrational guilt. "I wanted to make sure the door was still locked. It was… reaction. If I'd stopped to think, I wouldn't have touched it, obviously."

The cop looked noncommittal. He proceeded to take all Logan's information. By the time they had finished, his partner had rejoined them.

"No sign of anyone," Lewis said.

"I didn't fake a break-in," Logan said. "Someone tried to get in here tonight."

"No one is suggesting you faked a break-in, sir," Miller said woodenly.

"What'd I say?" Lewis looked around for enlightenment.

"Nah, no problem," Bob said. In an apparent spirit of helpfulness, he added to the police, "No way is the boss trying to pull a stunt like this. He just got out of the hospital. It's natural he'd be jumpy."

This, reasonably, led to explanation about how Logan had landed in the hospital to begin with, and by the time the cops finally drove away, Logan was sure they were convinced he was either a nut seeking attention or a criminal who had just outsmarted himself. Either way… not good.

Bob also departed, promising to patrol the grounds every hour, and Logan finally turned out the lights and returned to bed, where he spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning—and sitting up every time a floorboard creaked.

* * *

It was a relief to open his eyes to sunlight.

The morning was growing warm by the time Logan woke, still tired and a little groggy, and for a few moments he rested in the clean cotton sheets, listening to the sweet birdsong, the lulling rustle of leaves outside the open window, the hiss of sprinklers. Drowsily, his fingers fumbled with buttons of his pajama pants, reaching inside, touching the velvet warmth of his genitals. He comforted himself with the familiar motions, using the pearl of moisture at the head of his cock to slick his strokes.

Dak, he thought. Dak…

But, unsettlingly, it was Detective Diamond's face that kept interposing itself between Logan and the fantasy Dak. He closed his eyes against the image of the hardness of Diamond's hazel gaze so different from Dak's soft green gaze, nor on his beautiful (He had to admit) but hard face. Diamond was the last person he wanted to think of.

Especially in this context.

So how weird was it that he couldn't help wondering what it would be like with him? Did he have some hitherto-undiscovered kink for S and M? Because it was impossible to picture Diamond being anything but the most brief and brutal of lovers, being a cop as tough as he seemed and all.

The weird thing was his increasing certainty that Diamond was gay. From where had that conviction arisen? Diamond had said nothing to indicate his sexual inclinations, had he? Did Logan have any reason to think Diamond was anything but heterosexual? He definitely was a magnet for women so why he would be attracted to men?

But… _had _he and Dak ever really done this? Done _anything? _The dreams were so vivid, so real, like they're trying to say something, but…

A glance at the clock warned him he was going to be late. Punctuality being something apparently hardwired into him.

He moved his hand faster, just the right grip, the right angle… the quiet relief of his hand pumping in steady rhythm that was almost reverie… pumping… and then the fiercely sweet outcry—hot, wet ejaculation splattering belly and thighs, soaking into the thin cotton of his pajamas.

He closed his eyes, feeling that release echoing through his overstrung nerves and body, and then rolled out of bed heading for the shower.

It was when he opened the medicine cabinet looking for shaving cream that he spotted the small brown bottle of Zoloft. His name was on the prescription.

What the hell? _Antidepressants? _Maybe they made sense now that his life was falling apart, but _before _he got whacked on the head?

For a second or two, he stared down at the bottle, trying to reconcile the drugs with what he knew about himself—what he felt he knew, anyway. In the end he was forced to conclude it was simply another mystery.

He dressed in a white tailored shirt—he seemed to have an endless supply of them—and brown trousers, breakfasted on Danish and coffee, and walked up to the museum.

* * *

The parking lot was empty, the building still locked. He let himself inside and stood there gazing in dismay at the blinking red light of the alarm system. And then, quite easily, the code came to him and he punched it in.

The green light flicked on.

The relief was almost as overwhelming as the previous panic. He was remembering. It was all coming back. First in bits and pieces, and now in greater chunks of recollection.

He unlocked his office and went inside.

Had anyone been here since the day before? It all looked exactly as he'd left it. Was this feeling of paranoia due to the remaining gaps in his recollection or was there a reason for it?

He opened his laptop. The sign-in screen came up. He stared at it, frowning.

Then… he closed his eyes and just typed.

And just like that he was in—and blinking at a desktop background of himself and Dak. There were other people in the photo as well, but the center of attention was obvious—and embarrassing.

And all at once it was as though someone had splashed a bucket of cold water in his face. What was _with _him mooning over his married college roommate?

Was he really this lonely? This obsessed? Because from the strange perspective of an outsider looking in at Logan Mitchell's life, this just seemed… pathetic.

The first thing he did was change the desktop background to a generic picture of woods. As the autumn woodland scene flashed up, replacing the photograph of his fatuous smiling face gazing at Dak's profile, he felt an almost physical relief. Like a weight had been lifted off his chest.

Logan spent the next few hours reacquainting himself with his work life. It was some solace at least to see that however screwed up his personal life was, he was efficient and thorough when it came to his professional life.

As he went through e-mails, more and more came back to him. And not just his work life. He remembered all kinds of things. The door had swung back open—and this time it stayed open.

When he hit the gaps, it was almost disconcerting. But perhaps some of these were normal gaps. No one could remember the details of every meeting, every phone conversation, surely?

He clicked through the mail in his in-box. He had been working with a couple of local schools to arrange tours, and Gustavo was demanding a number of answers on questions relating to the annual charity ball to be held the following month in a not too friendly way.

He checked the files on his desktop. It looked like he had still been working on cataloging the museum's collections. That supported what Diamond had said—that Logan had discovered the thefts when he began to move from the manual catalog system to the electronic.

What had he noticed? What had tipped him off? Somewhere he must have made notes.

Certainly there was nothing threatening in any of this. Nothing that he should have wanted or needed to forget. In fact, there was remarkably little personal information in his office or his computer. Nor was it like museum curator was a high-risk job. Mostly it was planning, displaying, and cataloging the museum's myriad collections, which certainly seemed to be how he mostly spent his days. He also planned and oversaw tours and organized programs and the occasional workshop. That was about it. No Indiana Jones stuff for him.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up, and the perfect android voice said, "Mr. Zevon on line one."

"Thank you, Mercedes."

She clicked off. He took a breath and said, "Logan here."

"Logie." The warmth in that voice made him close his eyes. "I tried the bungalow, but you weren't answering. I thought I ordered you to take it easy."

_Ordered? _

"I feel better working."

"Logan."

Indulgent. Affectionate. Knowing. Yes. That was why he kept hanging on. But hanging on to _what? _A dream. Because sure as hell no memory of anything more tangible than a few brotherly hugs was coming back to him.

A little more briskly, Dak said, "How _are _you feeling today?"

Logan replied crisply, "Fine, thanks. Much better, in fact."

"After last night's adventure? Are you trying to pretend you're Superman?"

"No, of course not. I feel fine. How did you find about last night's attempted break-in?"

"Bob called me. I don't want to chew your ass, Logie, but you really should have called me yourself."

He should have. And the fact that he hadn't was more proof than anything that he was still a ways from back to normal.

"I was going to call first thing. It was two o'clock in the morning. I didn't see the point of disturbing you and… Carly." _Carly_. That was it. Yes, it was all coming back. The good and the bad.

"I understand, but—"

He blurted out, "My memory is starting to come back."

There was a pause and then Dak said heartily, "Excellent!"

"Yes."

There was another pause and then Dak said, "Well, since you _are _feeling better and since you say your memory is returning… the board of trustees would like to meet with you this afternoon. Are you up for that?"

Logan's heart sank. "Of course."

"It shouldn't be… Well, obviously there are questions. Things to discuss. But I don't anticipate any problems for you personally."

"All right."

The fact that Dak was bothering to say this indicated to Logan that he did indeed anticipate problems for Logan.

"We'll see you at four in the conference room then."

"Yes."

Dak clicked off. Logan hung up and jumped as the phone buzzed again.

"Yes?"

Mercedes said tersely, "The police are here."

* * *

_**A/N: Ok, well, I'm trying to make James to seem like the rudest, police and tough guy but without losing his beauty, but ugh, it's hard to me to make James in that way because he is so cute and tender and yeah, it's complicated. I hope you understand all the thing.**_

_**Hope You Liked It! =D**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**I Don't Own Anything!**_

_**Thanks to: lilygirl42001, Carphanie, **__**tvshowfan2604, **__**and AureaSE for the review =D **_

_**And anyone who has followed/favorited/read the story! THANKS YOU SO SO MUCH! XD**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

_**REMEMBER THE TIME**_

**Chapter Five**

Logan left his office and walked to the end of the short hall in time to see Detective Diamond crossing the main exhibit room. A group of special-ed students was touring the museum, and one of the boys was making loud bird sounds.

Diamond watched them without expression.

Logan said, "You're here bright and early."

The hard hazel gaze turned his way like an artillery battery zeroing on a target. "I heard about your break-in."

"And you think I faked it in order to throw suspicion off myself."

Diamond laughed. Not only was his laugh unexpectedly appealing, something about it struck Logan as… familiar. "I admit it doesn't really seem like your style."

"What do you think my style is?" He threw that over his shoulder as he started to turn away, but his attention was caught by Diamond's expression.

He hadn't been sure before, but now—something about that lazy, knowing appraisal—he was certain Diamond was gay.

Diamond said, "I think you don't like to take chances. I think you're careful and that you think before you act. You'd know enough not to knock the glass out on the wrong side of the door."

Logan grimaced. "I did knock the glass out, but it was an accident."

They reached his office as Diamond responded, "Right. But I don't think you have a lot of accidents. Which is why I have trouble with the scenario of you happening to walk down to the grotto at the exact moment thieves were yanking out that mural."

"Coincidences happen."

"Not to guys like you."

"Careful. Thoughtful. Crooked."

Diamond smiled that lazy smile again. "Anyway, that's not why I dropped by."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"I have news. Good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?"

Logan said honestly, "I don't know if I can take bad news right now."

Diamond gave him a long, unreadable look. "You have a partial alibi for the night of the robbery."

Logan sagged back against the wall. "I do?"

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised I have an alibi. I'm surprised you bothered to look for it. I didn't get the impression you had any interest in proving me innocent."

"It's not my job to _prove _anything. My job is to collect evidence and arrest the most likely suspect."

"Which you've decided is me."

Diamond stared at him for what seemed like a long time. "You think I'm being unfair to you? Trying to railroad you?"

He probably got excellent results with that intimidating stare. Logan refused to be intimidated. "I don't know. You seem to have your mind made up about me."

"I consider myself a pretty good judge of character."

"And you think I'm a thief?"

He was surprised when Diamond didn't immediately answer.

After a pause, Logan asked, "What's my alibi?"

"You were at Griffith Park horseback riding with friends who you later went to dinner with at Viva Fresh Mexican restaurant. Apparently that's how you spend all your Thursday evenings." He managed to make it sound like the kind of lame-ass thing Logan_ would _do.

The relief was considerable. Except… the look on Diamond's face was not reassuring. In fact, if it weren't so unbelievable, he'd have said Diamond looked slightly sorry for him.

He made himself ask. "So what's the bad news?"

"Reginald Bitters, a local pawnshop dealer, identified you as the man who's been coming in for the past twelve months selling items that showed up on the police report you filed."

A perfect and utter stillness gripped Logan. Somewhere, a long way off—possibly in another lifetime—he could hear that kid in the main exhibit room squawking like a frightened bird. Farther in the distance, a phone was ringing, muted and musical.

His lips felt stiff as he said, "It's not true."

Diamond simply looked at him.

Logan was shaking his head, denying it, denying the panic that was threatening to close him down. "There's some mistake."

"Maybe. He picked you out of a photo lineup, but we'd like to see how he does with the real thing."

"The real thing," Logan repeated numbly. "A-a lineup, you mean?"

"Right."

He swallowed hard. His throat felt fossilized.

"At a police station."

"Yep."

Logan couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from Diamond's. He said finally, dully, "I need to get a lawyer, don't I?"

Diamond eyed him dispassionately for what felt like a very long time. "Yes," he said. "You do."

* * *

Time flew. Not because Logan was having fun. Not even because he was busy, though he worked through the morning and afternoon. Whether he truly accomplished anything was debatable.

After Diamond left, Logan phoned a lawyer friend who recommended another lawyer who then referred him to a criminal lawyer. Logan set up an appointment with the criminal lawyer for the following morning, which was the soonest he could get—although the lawyer assured him that if Logan was arrested, he'd be there to bail him out before his mug shot was dry.

Far from reassuring Logan, this brought home to him the fact that he was probably going to be arrested—and that he had nothing to make bail with. He earned a very modest income. It was sufficient to his needs, mostly because his living expenses—rent and utilities—were covered by Constantine House. He owned no property—unless someone was in the market for a neurotic ex-racehorse—and there was less than four thousand dollars in his checking account.

Logan thanked Mr. Stephenson of Stephenson and Crane Law Offices, hung up the phone, and made straight for the men's room, where he spent the next three and a half minutes having dry heaves.

When he'd recovered sufficiently, he returned to his office and tried to work, but the struggle to concentrate was exhausting. Given the gaps in his memory, it would have been exhausting anyway. But silent panic was now his constant companion—practically a second presence in his office.

He was so anxious about the impending police lineup—and this lunatic pawnshop dealer who had misidentified him—that he had little energy to worry about the meeting with the board of trustees scheduled for that afternoon.

It was almost a shock when he looked at the clock and saw that it was 4:02.

Mercedes had not told him the trustees had arrived. He wondered with a surge of hope whether the meeting had been postponed, but when he walked down the hall to the conference room—formerly the mansion's dining room—he found the three trustees were not only already there, they were beginning to check their watches.

Gustavo Rouque was a big, fat, middle-aged man who made a point of doing nothing with his informal clothes, in spite of belonging to the three trustees, he always dressed like a cleaning man or something. His attitude wasn't very different from his appearance, he was always yelling at everyone and everything, Logan recalled one time when a little boy approached Gustavo to ask him where the bathrooms were but Gustavo just yelled and scared the poor kid. He also could remember a series of long and silly skirmishes with him on a variety of petty issues over everything from the museum electrical bills to a personal parking space for Gustavo.

Arthur Griffin—one of the four people who had access to the museum security code—was an eccentric man, tall and stocky with a very strange attitude, sometimes he had very weird ideas for the museum. Logan had always got on well with Griffin, and Griffin smiled in greeting—and then looked guilty—as Logan entered the room.

Logan barely registered the other two, his attention being focused on Dak, who had apparently been trying to find him.

"There you are!" Dak was smiling, his green eyes warm but troubled.

"Sorry. I lost track of time."

Gustavo sniffed disapprovingly. Dak said, "We understand you're busy. Have a seat, Logan."

Logan took a seat at the long dark dining table that now served as conference table. Gustavo was clicking down the meeting's minutes on his laptop.

Dak cleared his throat. "First of all," he said, "the board wants to make it very clear that we're pleased with your work at Constantine House. Your knowledge and ability is unquestioned. Your energy and enthusiasm for working with the public has been instrumental in bringing the museum out of the red. I think we'd all agree with that."

Dak looked pointedly at Gustavo, who sniffed noncommittally and continued typing on his laptop.

Logan managed to find words in the dry desert of his mouth. "Thank you."

"However"—Dak stared at the file before him as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world—"the past week has brought to light some disturbing… Information."

"I'm not stealing from the museum," Logan said. It came out more harshly than he intended, and Dak jumped.

"No one's suggesting… That is…"

Dak looked at Gustavo, who raised his head from his laptop and said in that heavy, pompous way, "I think if you'll look at this objectively for a moment, Mitchell, you'll agree that we have no choice but to suspend you pending the outcome of the police investigation."

Logan looked at Dak. Dak seemed unable to hold his gaze, his own eyes dark with emotion.

"It's hard for me to look at it objectively," Logan said. "I know I'm innocent of any wrongdoing. I'm the one who went to the police a year ago. No one would have been aware of the thefts if I hadn't brought them to the attention of the police."

"That's not true," Gustavo said. "The thefts were bound to be discovered eventually. It's probable"—he corrected himself—"it's _possible _that you hoped to shift any suspicion from yourself by bringing the matter to the attention of the police. After all, the investigation didn't go anywhere."

"So the failure of the police is my fault too?"

Dak said quietly, "Logan, this isn't easy for any of us."

Logan stared at him in disbelief. "No, but I think we can agree that it's a hell of a lot less easy for me."

Dak's face tightened, and Logan caught himself before he said anything else. This wasn't helping; it was probably making it worse. And maybe Dak didn't realize how personal this betrayal felt, although he'd have to be pretty stupid not to. But maybe he was stupid. Maybe that was one of the things Logan had forgotten.

For all he knew, this was just an excuse for the board of trustees to get rid of him. He remembered what Diamond had said about there being discussion of terminating his contract with the museum. So maybe this was so much smoke screen, and the bottom line was, he was out regardless of what the police found or didn't find.

Still, he couldn't help saying, "Everyone seems to forget that I was attacked and injured during the robbery. If I was in on it, that wasn't a very good plan."

"You weren't killed, though," Gustavo pointed out. He'd have been a hit If he had acted as Shrek, Logan reflected.

"I see. So you think I'd risk brain damage to try and cover my tracks, is that it?"

"No one thinks that," Dak said, although it was obvious from Gustavo's expression that, that was exactly what he thought. "This isn't a trial or a board of inquiry or anything like that. We're just taking the normal steps any organization in our position would take. As soon as you're exonerated, you'll be reinstated, of course."

Gustavo clicked busily away at his laptop without comment. Arthur was looking at his watch.

Logan said tersely, "Very well. I'll abide by your decision."

Not that he had any choice, but the other three looked various shades of relieved.

They began gathering up their notes and paper cups, and Logan stood motionless, wondering if he was supposed to hand over his keys. Probably, since he was suspected of ripping off his own museum, but he was not going to volunteer, and apparently none of them thought of it—or if they did, had the guts to ask him for the keys flat out.

He turned and left the conference room. He could hear the murmur of their voices before he was halfway down the hall.

* * *

"I'm so glad you called!" Carlos screamed over the roar of wind as they tore down Sunset Boulevard, weaving in and out of rush-hour traffic. "We've been thinking about you."

Kendall nodded eager agreement.

"Thanks for doing this. I appreciate it," Logan said. "I didn't know who else to call."

"We'd have killed you if you called anyone else," Carlos cried. "This is so much fun, dude. Such a great idea!"

Logan smiled weakly. He didn't know if it was a great idea or not, but at least it was an idea—so far the only one that had occurred to him. Whoever this Reginald Bitters was, this pawnshop dealer who Detective Diamond claimed had identified Logan as the seller of stolen goods, he clearly had Logan mixed up with someone else. Photos weren't reliable. And inevitably Bitters would be trying to match the Logan of the physical lineup with the photo he'd seen. But if presented with the living, breathing Logan, surely he'd see his mistake?

And if he didn't?

Well, if nothing else, Logan wanted a look at _him_. Maybe Bitters was someone he'd had some dealings with through the museum? Someone who had a grudge against him or the museum? As far-fetched as that seemed, it wasn't as far-fetched as the idea that Logan would be fencing stolen articles from Constantine House.

It hadn't taken him long to track the pawnshop down through the Internet. Sunset Boulevard Jewelry and Loan, proprietor: Reginald Bitters. Hours: ten thirty a.m. to eight p.m.

With some fancy maneuvering, Carlos managed to secure a parking space on the crowded street. The Latino and the blond one went inside to pretend to browse as they'd discussed on the drive over.

Logan waited in the car, giving them time to position themselves. The shop was quite a bit larger than he'd expected. It looked successful and busy.

He looked at his watch and got out of the car, crossing the street.

As he was buzzed inside the security door it occurred to him that in an operation of this size, Bitters might not be there. He'd been expecting a little hole-in-the-wall with an aged Shylock, jeweler's loupe at ready, waiting behind a battered front desk.

The reality was a large, well-lit shop stuffed with everything from televisions to musical instruments. An assortment of rifles and handguns were locked in cabinets along one wall. There was an enormous glass case of jewelry in the front of the shop. Kendall and Carlos were talking to a young man about a man-sized harp.

Another man stood behind the counter. Short and fat, short dark hair, he had dark-frame glasses and expression of tiredness and boredom. His automatic fake smile of welcome died at the sight of Logan walking down the center aisle.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Reginald Bitters?"

"You know damn well who I am. What are you trying to pull?"

"I'm not trying to pull anything. I want to know why you lied to the police."

"Lied to the police!" Bitters laughed. "You're kidding me, right?"

Logan glanced at Carlos and Kendall, who were watching with dismay. Definitely not going the way any of them had hoped.

"Are you trying to tell me that I've been in here before?"

"Are you trying to tell me you haven't?" Bitters laughed loudly again and nodded at the security camera in the corner over the counter. "It's a little late for that."

Logan gazed into the security camera. He hadn't expected that, but… It didn't change anything. He knew he had not stolen from the museum or tried to pawn his ill-gotten booty. "You have me confused with someone else."

"No I don't. And I'll tell you now what I told you the last time you brought that junk in here. I don't deal in stolen property and I don't deal with crooks. Now get out of my store. I'm calling the cops."

* * *

_**Uh-oh! Things got difficult for Logan. What will happen next? Find out in the next chapter!**_

_**Hope You Liked It! ㋡**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**I Don't Own Anything!**_

_**Thanks to: **__**Carphanie, **__**lilygirl42001, **__**AureaSE**__**, **__**and Stranger In Training for the review, it means so so much =D**_

_**And anyone who has followed/favorited/read the story! MANY THANKS! XD**_

**_A/N: I'm sorry I could not update on Friday, but my computer had problems with WiFi, in fact still has them, I can't believe, it's supposed to be new and is already having problems =C_**

**_Good thing I have my old one yet, but it's slow *sigh*_**

_**Anyway, Enjoy!**_

* * *

_**REMEMBER THE TIME**_

**Chapter Six**

"Why?!" Diamond asked when Logan opened his front door later that same evening.

Logan repeated warily, "Why?"

Diamond moved forward and Logan stepped back, allowing the detective into the bungalow. It wasn't as though he had much choice. Diamond was bullying his way inside whether Logan wanted it or not. He jabbed his finger in Logan's chest, emphasizing his point with each poke.

"You know something, Mitchell, you really are pretty stupid. Cute, in a stick-up-the-ass kind of way, but incredibly stupid." Logan opened his mouth but didn't get a chance to speak as the cop continued, "Why the hell would you confront a witness in the case being built against you?"

Logan halted his retreat. "For that reason. Because you're building a case against me and it's a damn lie. And I don't care how many fake witnesses you come up with—"

"You think I'm manufacturing evidence against you?!" If Diamond had looked furious before, he looked combustible now. "Are you nuts?! If I was manufacturing evidence against you, do you think I'd have told you we had a witness who could link you to the property stolen from the museum?"

"What the hell did you tell me for if you didn't want me to do anything about it?!"

Logan knew that wasn't a reasonable question, so he was astonished when Diamond roared, "So you could hire a lawyer! So you wouldn't broadsided!**(1)**"

"Why the hell would you care?! You've been trying to stick me with this from the beginning!"

"You know why! So quit feeding me that crap about not remembering."

"I don't remember!" What the hell were they yelling about? Logan wasn't completely sure. He only knew that the level of anger—on both sides—didn't make sense.

Maybe Diamond had the same thought, because all at once he was ice-cold.

"I don't know if I feel sorry for you or I'm actually a little glad to see you get what you deserve. You want to stick to that idiot story, go right ahead. But I've got to tell you, that stupid amnesia might work in those romance novels you're so fond of, but it's not going to fly in real life. Whatever the hell it is you're hiding, you better give it up and come clean. Or you're going to wind up in prison."

And on that note, Diamond wheeled away and slammed out of the house, leaving Logan gaping after him.

The door Diamond had banged shut drifted open again. Logan closed it absently, thinking hard.

Every encounter with Diamond seemed to indicate that he and Logan had had some previous interaction—and it had to be something more intimate than Logan reporting museum thefts, given the detective's level of hostility. Logan put a hand to his chest where Diamond had poked him. Even that, that level of physicality, seemed indicative of a more personal relationship. And that comment about romance novels. How in the hell could Diamond possibly know he read romance novels?

Unless the police _had _searched his bungalow while he'd been in the hospital? But Diamond had said no, and why should he lie about it? He was blunt enough about everything else.

Yet another mystery, but this one niggled at him.

Unable to relax, Logan prowled around the bungalow for a time, before deciding to go up to the museum and retrieve his laptop. If nothing else, he could catch up on some e-mail.

* * *

Crickets chirped in loud chorus as he crossed the otherwise silent garden. The scent of flowers hung in the still-warm air.

Logan unlocked the back door of the museum and let himself inside, punching the security code in. In the eerie green glow of the emergency lights, the museum looked even more macabre than usual as he walked quietly down the hallway past the exhibits to his office.

He put his laptop in its case, locked his office, and returned to the main hall, his footsteps echoing emptily.

Before he reset the security code he paused, listening. All was quiet. What was he expecting to hear?

Logan left the museum and made his way quickly across the garden back to his bungalow.

He reheated another portion of chicken rice casserole and settled down at the desk in his study to work but instead found himself listing out all the possible suspects in the museum thefts.

First on his list was Mercedes Griffin. But that was mostly because he didn't like the girl. As criminal masterminds went, she'd probably be too busy filing her nails. Granted, she was at the museum all day and certainly had access to the exhibits. Furthermore, her father, Arthur Griffin, was one of the only people with the after-hours access code to the museum, which meant—at least in theory—that Mercedes had access to the code as well. But the first thefts had occurred before she was working in the museum.

Arthur Griffin. Well, Logan had always pegged him as indolent and affable. The Griffins appeared to be affluent, though who knew about the financial details of other people's lives. The Griffins could be struggling beneath the comfortable country-club surface. Even so it was difficult to picture Griffin down in the grotto dirtying his own hands. He'd definitely subcontract his life of crime.

Bob, the night watchman, certainly had access to the museum and grounds. He might be hard up for money; Logan didn't know him well enough to speculate, let alone draw conclusions, there. The old fellow had always appeared to enjoy his job for whatever that was worth. Apparently not much since Logan had loved his job too, but the police still viewed him as viable suspect.

Dak… Well, that was ridiculous. However, for the sake of argument… yes, once upon a time Dak had been hard up for money—relatively speaking—but all that had changed when he wed Carly. Carly Rowland was a very wealthy young woman. It seemed pretty unlikely Dak would have to resort to stealing from his own museum.

Anyway, it didn't have to be anyone with after-hours access to the museum—nor anyone on staff or working at Constantine House in any capacity. The theft of the wall mural could have been pulled off by professional art thieves, and the pilfering from the museum could possibly be occurring during business hours. Granted, it wasn't probable, but it was possible.

Clearly it wasn't what Detective Diamond thought. But Diamond…

Logan kept coming back to that crack about romance novels. How _did _Diamond know that?

* * *

It was about ten o'clock when the doorbell rang. Logan rose from his desk and went to peer through the peephole in the front door.

Dak.

Briefly he considered telling him to get lost, but not only was Dak technically still his employer, Logan felt a bitter curiosity as to what Dak thought he could possibly say.

He turned the lock and opened the door. Dak stepped inside.

"We have to talk."

Logan moved aside and Dak brushed past him. He smelled of aftershave—Armani Code—and, very faintly, whiskey.

Inside, Dak looked around narrowly; did he think Logan might have stolen items from the museum lying about the bungalow? He looked haggard as his eyes met Logan's.

Logan folded his arms across his chest. "What did you want to talk about?"

He could hear the coldness in his own voice and could tell from Dak's wince that he heard it too.

"If you think I'm happy about what happened today, you're wrong."

"I don't think you're happy. But you sure as hell didn't lift a finger to stop it."

"How could I?"

_How couldn't you?_ Logan thought, but Dak sounded genuinely pained, so he said wearily, "Look, I don't want to fight with you."

"That's the last thing I want either."

"Would you like a drink?"

Dak nodded distractedly. "Thanks."

Logan went to the liquor cabinet, realizing as he did so that he knew what Dak drank—two fingers of Johnny Walker Black Label on the rocks—and he also knew that he would find a bottle in his liquor cabinet, where he kept it in hope that Dak might drop by.

He poured two drinks and carried them into the living room. Dak was still standing, gazing down at the collection of photos as though looking for answers in those freeze-framed faces.

Logan handed him his drink, their fingers brushed. Dak tossed the whiskey back in two long swallows.

"Again?"

Dak moved his head in the negative. He turned the glass nervously in his hand. "Are you still…? Do you still really not remember anything?"

"You don't believe me, do you?" Logan studied him curiously. Why would Dak think him capable of making something like this up?

"You were… You've been very…unhappy."

"Unhappy enough to turn to a life of crime?"

"Of course not."

"Then what are you talking about? What am I so unhappy about?"

Dak said awkwardly, "I suppose a number of things in your life didn't turn out the way you wanted."

Wasn't that true of everyone to a degree? Was Dak suggesting that Logan didn't want to remember because he was unhappy and disappointed? About… what?

"I don't understand. I have good friends. A job I love." Yet as Logan said it, he remembered the Zoloft in the bathroom cabinet. Clearly something had not been right in his life.

As though reading his thoughts, Dak said, "But it wasn't enough. You were lonely."

Suddenly it was hard to meet his gaze. "Maybe."

"I'm sorry for that. Sorry if I hurt you. It wasn't intentional. You're… you're one of my oldest… one of my closest friends."

It had to be asked. "Is that all we are? Friends?"

The Adam's apple in Dak's throat jumped. "Yes. God. I'm sorry. But yes. We've never been anything more than friends." He said it very firmly.

"Why are you sorry?"

Dak seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. "Because…"

"I would have liked more?"

He nodded. "It's a long time in the past, but yes. At one time you would have liked our friendship to be more."

Logan nodded. He thought of the dreams he'd had been having. Such vivid, detailed dreams of himself and Dak. Fantasy, not memory. But very real for all that. Apparently he was a lot more of a romantic than he'd realized, carrying a torch for his best friend all these years. Romantic… or maybe just an idiot.

"I don't know why," Dak was saying. "I've never… had any curiosity that way. I don't know what you thought you saw."

"Neither do I." He didn't mean it insultingly, but he could see from Dak's expression the way it sounded. "I mean… I don't remember feeling that. I know I—It's obvious I had feelings for you at one time."

"Yes."

At one point Dak had clearly been one of the most important people in his life. Presumably someone he trusted—someone who trusted him. But that hit on the head must have knocked some sense into him.

"Was it a problem for us? My feelings for you?"

"_No_. God, no. We'd resolved all that years ago. Back in college."

"Then why do you think I was so unhappy?"

Dak looked even more uncomfortable. "It's just an impression. Things changed after my marriage last year. We weren't as close."

"Well, we wouldn't be, right?"

Dak's eyes met his. "That's true. And maybe you had come to terms with it. But you seemed distant… worried."

"Couldn't it have had to do with the thefts at the museum?"

"Perhaps."

_Perhaps? _Was it his imagination or was Dak something of a narcissist? Because somehow Logan had trouble believing—not that Dak wasn't an attractive guy; he was. But… seeing him these past few days, as though for the first time, well, Logan really didn't feel like Dak was all that much his type.

Maybe it did have to do with that fat gold wedding band on Dak's left hand. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Dak hadn't stood up for him with the board of trustees. Or maybe his feelings for Dak had been mostly infatuation that he was finally—and high time—growing out of. Whatever it was, as Logan scrutinized the other man, he felt oddly dispassionate, even cool.

"Dak, why did you come here this evening?"

Dak didn't answer.

Logan thought he understood. "I appreciate your concern, but at this point it's up to the police."

"Yes." Dak continued to watch him in that hard-to-decipher way.

"Or is there something else?"

"Such as?"

"I don't know." Logan said slowly, "Detective Diamond said that there had been some discussion of replacing me at the museum before today."

"_What_?"

"He said that even before I became a suspect in the museum thefts that there was talk of terminating my contract."

"He's saying it to get a rise out of you or something. It's not true."

Logan had not thought it was true either, until he listened to Dak denying it. Then he realized that Diamond had apparently got it right. It was right there in Dak's tone. It wasn't the idea he was shocked at, it was the fact that Diamond had found out.

"I don't understand." And despite his best effort, Logan couldn't hide his upset. "I've worked my ass off for the museum. You said yourself were finally beginning to see a profit."

"Logie"— Dak rested his hands on Logan's shoulders—"it's not true. I don't know why he told you that, but of course it's not true."

And the more Dak denied it, the more Logan could see that it was true.

Chilled, he said, "That's good. I've been completely loyal to you and the museum. I'd be disappointed to think my loyalty wasn't returned."

Dak's hands, still resting lightly on Logan's shoulders, began to knead gently. "There's nothing for you to worry about. No one is going to disappoint you. As soon as this mess gets cleared up, you'll have your job back. Trust me."

"I'd like to."

"You can. I promise you." He seemed to re-collect himself and let Logan go. "Everything will work out. You'll see."

"Diamond seems to think I'm going to be arrested."

"I don't believe that."

Logan had no real response to Dak's optimism. He'd have liked to believe Dak, but he tended to think Diamond had the inside track.

"If I am arrested—"

"That's nonsense. You won't be arrested." Abruptly, Dak headed for the front door, and Logan followed him slowly.

If he was arrested, it was obvious that Dak would feel himself unable to help—all part of that antifavoritism thing, apparently.

At the door, Dak hesitated. His green eyes gazed deeply into Logan's. His whiskey breath fanned Logan's mouth. It was a little weird, actually. Was Dak…? Did Dak want to kiss him? Logan wasn't sure, but it sort of seemed like…

Dak said a little huskily, "Good night, Logan."

"Good night."

Logan closed the door, locked it, and wondered what the hell that had been about.

* * *

**_(1)Be severely prosecuted by law._**

**_As Always ___****Hope You Liked It! :D**


	7. Chapter 7

_**I Don't Own Anything!**_

_**Thanks to: **__**lilygirl42001, **__**Carphanie,**____**Stranger In Training and Guest **__**for the review, it means so much =D**_

_**And anyone who has followed/favorited/read the story! THANK YOU VERY MUCH! XD**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

_**REMEMBER THE TIME**_

**Chapter Seven**

Logan knew what the result of the lineup would be from the moment he arrived at the police station Wednesday morning. He could feel it in the way he was greeted—even by his lawyer—and in the way he was escorted down to the waiting room. It was obvious that this was pretty much a formality. Mr. Stephenson had as good as said so. In fact, he'd actually said he wasn't sure why the police were wasting everyone's time with a lineup since Reginald Bitters had already identified Logan, before, during, and now after his impromptu visit to the pawnshop, as the man who'd tried to sell him stolen goods.

Logan wondered if he should apologize for wasting Mr. Stephenson's valuable time. He'd have been happy to skip the lineup himself. At least he didn't have long to wait before he was summoned to join a queue of eight other men approximately his height and build waiting in a hallway. They were led inside a long bare room and instructed to face what was clearly a two-way mirror.

A voice over the loudspeaker asked them to turn to the right, back to center, and then to the left. They were each asked to speak an innocuous line— Logan had already forgotten what they said about three seconds afterward.

They were thanked for their time, escorted back to the waiting room, and Detective Diamond appeared for the first time— Logan's lawyer in tow.

Logan saw all he needed to know in Diamond's face. He was absolutely prepared, so it was a little shock to feel that wave of light-headedness washing over him as Diamond told him he was under arrest. He managed to hide it, he hoped, standing silent while Diamond put the handcuffs on him.

"Is this necessary?" Stephenson said, sounding mostly bored. "My client has cooperated every step of the way. He's _already _in police custody."

"We've got procedures to follow, sir," Diamond said, snapping the handcuffs closed. "Sorry," he added brusquely—and that was directed to Logan, though he barely registered it.

"I'll arrange bail proceedings as we've discussed, Logan," Stephenson said, moving away.

Logan nodded. He felt like he was watching it all happen to someone else, and that was probably just as well. He embraced his inner numbness. If he could have climbed onto an astral plane, he'd have done it. He thought Diamond might have addressed a couple of other remarks to him before he was handed over to the uniformed officer who took his mug shots and fingerprints, but it was like listening to someone across a busy street.

* * *

He spent hours in a cell with a sullen-looking Asian kid who appeared to be tattooed over every visible inch of his hide and an elderly drunk with a busy mustache who was snoring for all the world like a cartoon character.

Every so often the Illustrated Man would get up, shrieking obscenities, and slam at the bars of the cell, and the sleeper would snort loudly like he was about to go into respiratory failure.

At last Logan's name was called and he was escorted to where Carlos and Kendall waited for him.

He managed a terse thanks before going to collect the envelope of his personal belongings.

"You didn't think we were going to leave you to rot in there, did you?" Carlos demanded, wrapping him in a big hug as he returned to where they patiently waited for him. The Latino must have seen that Logan was fighting for his composure because he said briskly, "God, this is a depressing place. Let's get _out _of here."

"You should have called us first thing," The blonde said, taking his turn at hugging Logan tightly.

"I was hoping…" Logan didn't try to try to finish it. He'd been hoping for a miracle. He hadn't got it, but the next best thing had happened: his friends had stood by him, and he'd never been so grateful to see anyone in his life. In fact, he was very much afraid he was going to make a huge fool of himself if they didn't get out of there fast.

He sat in the back of the MG TF, eyes closed, while Carlos rocketed them home. The hot, dry wind blowing against his face felt clean and comforting.

When they got back to the bungalow, it was nearly five o'clock. He'd spent the entire day in jail; it felt like a month. Like a lifetime.

He excused himself and went upstairs to shower, standing under the warm spray for a long, long time, letting the cleansing water sluice over his head and shoulders.

He felt marginally better when he went downstairs. Carlos and Kendall were in the kitchen. They had found the flask of cold brew in the fridge that he'd put in there what felt like a year ago and were drinking iced coffee. Logan opted for whiskey.

"Hungry?" Carlos asked brightly. "There's plenty of chicken rice casserole left."

"Maybe later." There was something funny about the way they were watching him. Newly—and possibly rightly—paranoid, he asked, "What is it?"

Kendall nodded at the table, and Logan saw that there was a letter there with the official stamp of the museum.

"It came while you were in the shower," The blonde said in a stifled voice.

Logan reached for the letter and ripped it open before he had time to think about it.

_Dear Mr. Mitchell._

His eyes scanned the neatly typed page. It was polite and perfunctory. The Constantine House Board of Trustees had convened in an emergency meeting to reach the unanimous if regretful decision that they must terminate his contract with their organization—effective immediately. He had ten days to vacate the bungalow in which he currently resided.

His eyes were drawn again to that weirdly formal _Dear Mr. Mitchell. _

"What is it?" Kendall demanded, although it was clear from his tone of voice that he had a pretty good idea what it was.

Logan handed him the letter and went to stare out the window over the sink at the trees.

"That lousy son of a bitch Dak," Kendall snarled. "When are you going to see him for the manipulative, selfish bastard that he is?"

Not that Logan was feeling particularly high on Dak at the moment, but this did seem a little out of the blue.

"How is it Dak's fault?"

"Don't defend him!" Carlos and Kendall yelled in chorus, and he stared at them, bewildered.

"For God's sake, Logan! Dak has taken advantage of your feelings for him for _years_. He gives you just enough to keep you hanging on—without ever actually giving you _anything_. He got you to work for him instead of taking the job in Houston…"

"_Houston_?"

"How can you not remember this?"

Good question. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

"You'd agreed to take a job at a small hospital in Houston for a better salary than you have now and you have always wanted be a doctor but then Dak asked you to take the position here at Constantine House, because you were best friends and he needed someone for the position"

"I—"

"_You_," Carlos said flatly. "And you'll want to notice Dak didn't come up with the job when _you _needed a job; he only suggested Constantine House after you'd already accepted another, better job. When he saw you getting away."

"Getting away?" Logan echoed, staring at him.

"That's right. Oh my God." The Latino ran both hands through his dark hair, causing it to stand up lightly. "You have no idea how badly we wanted you to go—as much as we love you—just to get away from him. But of course he couldn't let that happen."

"What are you trying to say?"

"Carlos's right," Kendall said calmly. "We don't know what Dak's story is. We only know him through you—but that's plenty. Maybe he's truly conflicted or maybe he's just so self-centered it's pathological, but every single time you start to move on, he finds some way to drag you back. Do you know how many relationships he's spoiled for you over the years? Just by crooking his little finger."

Logan was shaking his head. "You're wrong. He told me last night there was nothing between us—and there never has been."

Carlos said, "And as he said it he smiled into your eyes and held your gaze and brushed your arm with his hand. Logan, we've been watching him in action for _years_. He controls you like a… a…"

"Puppet," Kendall supplied.

Logan trailed off, unwilling to believe what he was hearing, although it was obvious from both their faces that this was a truth they had been long wanting to deliver. "Even if you're right… even if it's true, how does that"—he nodded at the letter now lying on the table—"have anything to do with it?"

"Because Dak totally controls that board. If you're being terminated, then that's Dak's decision. For whatever reason, _Dak _wants you gone. Either because he thinks you're guilty or a liability or because he's afraid of the scandal. Or all of the above."

"_Or _because you're too much of a temptation," Kendall put in. "I don't think that marriage is exactly a grand passion."

"Dak is not gay," Carlos said shortly.

"We don't know what Dak is."

"Other than a manipulative bastard."

"On that we're agreed." Kendall looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Logan, but there really is a pattern here, and it's been going on for a long time. Every time you meet someone and it seems like you're happy, Dak finds some way to yank you back."

Carlos interjected, "He gives you just enough that you start to think maybe you do really matter to him after all. We've seen this again and again. I mean, I was actually glad you couldn't remember Dak after you got hit on the head. That's how bad it is."

One thing was patently clear. They believed every word they were saying. And that belief, that certainty, was painfully convincing. Logan asked dully, "When was the last time this happened? That I started seeing someone else and Dak… yanked me back?"

"It's been a while. About six months. You were seeing someone you met through work, and it seemed like it was going really well. And then Dak started having marital problems and he needed a buddy's shoulder to cry on. And the next thing we heard, you weren't seeing anyone anymore."

"What was the name of this guy I was seeing?"

Carlos and Kendall were both shaking their heads. "You didn't say," Carlos said. "In fact, you were kind of mysterious about it. We thought maybe it was someone you'd met at a conference."

"Maybe someone married."

"Great." Logan said exasperated.

Carlos said darkly, "I don't think you'd get involved with someone married. It's not like you haven't had plenty of that already. I think subconsciously you didn't want Dak to know you were getting involved with someone again."

"You were really depressed afterward," The blonde said. "I mean… not just down, but really _down_."

Logan thought again of the bottle of Zoloft in the bathroom.

"And that's not like you," Carlos put in. "You've always been very positive and optimistic. Just a really enthusiastic person." He added, "If a little slow on the uptake."

The brunette shot him a look, and Carlos offered a wide grin. "And I say that with the greatest affection."

"Yes. I see that." Logan sighed. "I appreciate the concern. And the honesty. It's… Don't take this the wrong way, but I have enough to deal with without this."

"But you need to hear this, Logan," Kendall said earnestly. "You cannot trust Dak."

It was practically like one of those TV interventions. He said tiredly, "I won't. I don't."

Carlos was glaring at the letter. "This is _typical _of the no-balls way that gutless jerk would handle something like this."

Logan appreciated their sympathy, but really this was just making it harder. He said, "Thank you for telling me. I mean that. To be honest, I don't know what I feel for Dak anymore." At their expressions, he said hastily, "Except that I know I don't… feel _that_. I don't love him. And I know that whatever he feels for me"—this was the part that still felt raw—"it's not enough to inconvenience himself when I'm in trouble." He finished the rest of the whiskey in his glass, and the burn going down his throat helped.

There was a pause. "Why don't you come back with us?" Kendall urged. "You shouldn't be alone tonight."

Logan shook his head. He dredged up a smile, which he hoped looked more reassuring than it felt. "I'll sleep better in my own bed, and that's what I feel like I need now. A good night's sleep."

They didn't like it, but in the end they had to accept his decision. Even so he had to promise to remember to eat the rest of the dried-out casserole, not get drunk by himself, and call if he needed anything.

When the MG TF had sped away, leaving the sound barrier lying broken in the dust, Logan headed for his study. Drawer by drawer he went through his desk, conviction growing with each moment.

"_Those romance novels you're so fond of_."

"_So you could hire a lawyer. So you wouldn't be broadsided_."

"_Sorry_."

He found what he was looking for in his address book. There was just a large initial _J _under the _D's_. Large enough to take up the height of two lines. Whoever J was, he had been someone Logan didn't want to lose track of.

He rang the number. It rang and rang and then an answering machine picked up and Detective Diamond recited the phone number and instructed him to leave a message.

Logan hung up.

After a moment he realized tears were running down his face. He wiped them away impatiently. Finally, one mystery solved.

For a short time he and James Diamond had been lovers.

So that was really a relief because it was the uncertainty eating at him, right? And here was one uncertainty explained at last. Good news, really, despite the incontrovertible proof of the fool he had been, so no sense sitting here crying. He had probably made worse mistakes than that, starting with passing up the job in Houston.

He stared as the phone at his elbow rang.

_Diamond_, Logan thought, it could be him. He was not ready if Diamond asked him about the previous call.

He took a deep breath then he picked it up and answered, only to discover it was the _Los Angeles Times _wanting an interview.

He declined and hung up.

Now Diamond's fury at his amnesia made more sense. Or did it? Why exactly was he so angry at Logan? Diamond had apparently done the dumping. It was a bit unclear. Unless he really did think Logan was ripping off his own museum. Was that why he'd broken it off between them? Did he believe Logan was a thief?

The phone rang again and Logan got nervous again.

Logan picked up. Another newspaper. The blood was in the water, and the sharks were circling.

Logan declined the opportunity to appear as newsworthy chum—less politely than he had turned down the _Times_—and hung up.

He was still staring at the phone when it rang yet again. An unpleasant reminder that he had more pressing problems than the fact that James Diamond didn't like him anymore. Logan was jobless, soon-to-be homeless, and probably going to prison for theft.

He took the phone off the hook.

* * *

It wasn't until Logan was scraping his dinner plate into the trash that he suddenly registered the absence of his laptop on his desk. He went into the study, and sure enough it was gone.

A quick search of the bungalow confirmed what he already knew. His laptop was gone.

Heart pounding, mouth dry, he called Dak.

It seemed a long time before Dak came on the line, and the sick knowledge roiled in Logan's belly that Dak might simply refuse to speak to him at all. But at last Dak got on the line sounding friendly but wary.

"Logan! How goes it?"

"You mean aside from your firing me today? Well, I was arrested. But I guess you knew that."

"I know. I heard your friends Carlos and Kendall were able to put up the bail for you. I wish I could have… Well, you know that. But the conflict of interest between the museum and—"

"Thanks for your concern," Logan bit out. "But that's not why I'm calling. My laptop is missing."

"Oh." Dak said awkwardly, "Someone should have left a note for you. That laptop is museum property, as I'm sure you realize."

"For Chris sake, Dak. You're acting like I'm suddenly an enemy. Like I can't be trusted—"

"No, no. It's not that," Dak broke in. "It occurred to us, to Arthur, actually, that the police were probably going to confiscate your laptop anyway, and we wanted to download everything we might need before it disappeared for God knows how long waiting for you to go to trial."

"Waiting for me to…" Logan's voice gave out at the casual reference to his future trial date and probable fate.

"Logie." Dak stopped. He said carefully, "We have to be realistic here."

Logan couldn't have spoken had his life depended on it.

"Carly and I are more sorry than we can say that things have worked out like this for you. We don't think you stole from the museum, but…"

_Carly and I? _

"Right. Thanks."

"We have no doubt that you're going to be proven innocent, but I'm sure you see what a difficult position this is for me. Regardless of my personal feelings, my first responsibility is to the museum."

"Yes, I got that. I assume you want me to turn over my keys too?"

"Your keys to the museum, yes. There's no hurry about the bungalow. You still have nine days to vacate."

Logan said, "That's… so kind of you. Nine whole days. Can you wait for the keys until tomorrow or did you want me to bring them to you right now?"

A pause. Dak sounded very subdued as he said, "We've been friends a long time, Logie. Try to look at this from my perspective."

"Through your ass, you mean? Because that's what you're talking through." Logan slammed the receiver down with a shaking hand. The phone rang half a minute after that. He let it ring until it stopped, and then he took it off the hook once more.

* * *

It took him a long time to relax enough to fall asleep when he finally calmed down enough to go to bed.

He wasn't sure what woke him. The squeak of a floorboard? A shadow cutting across the band of moonlight through the window? Whatever the warning, Logan's eyes jerked open on the knowledge that someone was in his bedroom.

There was a moment of sheer and paralyzing disbelief, and then some instinct urged movement, and he rolled off the edge of the bed. The mattress next to his head jerked, he heard the weird, squished sound of a silenced shot, then another, then another.

Horrified, he recognized that someone was shooting at him. Unbelievably, someone had just tried to _kill _him.

There wasn't time to think it through. He reacted automatically, grabbing the brass clock off the nightstand and throwing it hard at the tall silhouette illuminated in the moonlight. It made a _ping _as it connected with the intruder's head. He staggered back and fired, hitting the lamp next to the bed a few inches from where Logan was crouched and getting off another shot into the wall behind the nightstand.

There was nowhere to go. Logan dived beneath the bed. The shooter came around the side of the bed, stepping on the small round rug beside it, and some instinct guided Logan to grab the rug and yank hard. The man went down firing. Plaster drifted from the ceiling and a window broke.

Logan was out from under the bed desperately wrestling for the gun. He knew he was fighting for his survival, and that the only rule was to survive the next minutes. It was quick and dirty and brutal. Using both hands, he wrenched the gun out of the man's hand and threw it across the room. The shooter punched him in the head. Dazed, Logan let go, and the man rolled away and scrambled for the door. His footsteps thudded down the stairs, a door slammed and Logan scrambled over to the phone. There was no dial tone.

He thought his attacker must have cut the phone line, and then he remembered that he had taken the phone off the hook before bed.

Legs wobbling, he went downstairs, replaced the phone, and called 911.

* * *

**_As Always ___****Hope You Liked It! :D**


	8. Chapter 8

_**I Don't Own Anything!**_

_**Thanks to: **__**lilygirl42001, **__****__**Guest, **__**Carphanie,**__** Stallion8426 **__**and AureaSE **__**for the review, IT MEANS SO SO MUCH! **__**XD**_

_**And anyone who has followed/favorited/read the story! THANKS A LOT! **__**=D**_

_**Here is the next chapter, Enjoy!**_

* * *

_**REMEMBER THE TIME**_

**Chapter Eight**

"That is a beaut of a shiner," a familiar voice said admiringly. "What's the other guy look like?"

Logan looked up from the earnest face of the young female cop taking his statement. James Diamond stood beside the kitchen table, his hazel eyes taking in Logan's battered face.

Logan held an ice pack to his right eye, swollen and already darkening. In addition to the black eye, he had a bruise on his jaw—as well as other less visible parts of his anatomy—a chipped molar where his teeth had collided, and two sets of scraped and bloodied knuckles.

He said bitterly, "What makes you think there was another guy? Maybe I did this shaving."

Diamond gave a harsh laugh, but it was a sore spot with Logan. The crime scene personnel currently wandering around the house had been unable to find where his assailant had broken in. The window of the kitchen door was still boarded up and no other windows had been broken. Nor had either of the locks on the doors of the house been picked or broken.

No one actually came right out and accused Logan of rigging the whole thing, but the fact that he was the primary suspect in the theft of a very valuable painting was obviously being taken into account.

Diamond flashed his ID to the female officer. "Thanks. I'll take it from here. This is part of my ongoing investigation."

She slid out of the breakfast nook, leaving her notes, and Diamond slid in to take her place. He eyed Logan unsmilingly, "You okay?"

"Great." He said sarcastically.

"I'm serious. Do you need medical attention?"

Logan shook his head.

"Okay. So what happened?"

So much for sympathy. Not that Logan expected it—although, knowing what he now did about their former relationship, maybe he was unconsciously looking for some sign… but there was nothing. He nodded—gingerly—at the uniformed cop who was disappearing into the other room, and Diamond said, "I know. Let's hear it again."

Logan told it all again. How he had woken out of a sound sleep to find someone in his bedroom and twenty seconds later found himself fighting for his life.

"What woke you?" Diamond asked, watching him closely.

"I don't know. Or at least I don't remember. It happened so fast. I was only half awake."

"What made you roll out of the way of those bullets?"

So Diamond had already been upstairs, already heard what the investigating officers had to say. This was probably just a formality. He already thought he knew everything he needed to.

Logan said wearily, "I honestly don't know. There was a shadow over me, and I just… jumped out of the way at the same time he started firing." He added without anger, "I know you don't believe me. I know you all think this is part of some involved cover story."

"I didn't say that."

"You don't have to." He stared through his good eye at Diamond. It was so weird knowing what he now knew. He wished… he wished he could remember their former relationship. He wished Diamond didn't hate him so much.

Not that Diamond was acting like he hated him. Tonight he was all business, cool and professional.

"They can't find how he broke in," Logan said.

"Maybe he didn't break in."

"Yes, that has already been suggested."

Diamond offered the wolfish grin. "Has it? That's not what I mean, though. I don't think you're stupid enough to imagine something like this would work to divert suspicion from you for the theft of the mural."

"And yet you think I'm stupid enough to steal from the museum and then report it to the cops."

Diamond's gaze held his own. "No. I don't, frankly."

Logan sat up a little straighter. "You don't?"

"No." Diamond added, "That doesn't mean that having gone to the police about the thefts—establishing a precedent—you couldn't have arranged to have the mural stolen in an attempt to make it look like part of the same pattern. This was a very different kind of crime. The earlier thefts were all small items easily pilfered. Taking the mural required planning and a partner."

Logan gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

Diamond eyed him for an assessing interim. "But I don't believe you were involved in that either."

"You don't."

"No."

"Then what _do _you think is going on?"

"I think someone wants you dead, Logan."

Logan opened his mouth, but he couldn't think of what he wanted to say. The truth was, as shocking as it was to hear it aloud, he had already figured that much out.

Diamond was watching Logan's face as he continued, "Either because this someone thinks you know something, or because it's too obvious you _don't _know anything and will make a better scapegoat dead than alive." He glanced over the uniformed officer's notes. "Let's take it from the top."

Diamond was thorough, no doubt about it. By the time he had finished reviewing Logan's account of the night's events, the crime scene personnel had cleared out and the windows were growing light. Logan's bruised and pummeled body was beginning to ache. He hurt from his face to his left foot—where he'd accidentally kicked the dresser while he'd been wrestling on the floor. He was so tired he could barely concentrate—but no way was he going to spend the rest of the night in the bungalow, and he said so to Diamond as he at last concluded their interview and rose.

"Where do you plan on going?"

"A hotel."

Diamond was staring at him, his expression unreadable. "What hotel?"

"I don't know. Wherever I can get in this time of night." He glanced at the window. "Morning."

Diamond said, "I'll make a phone call and get you booked into the Best Western."

As gallant gestures went, it wasn't much, but tiredness and pain had lowered Logan's resistance and he was grateful for any sign of kindness. "Thanks."

Diamond brushed it off uncomfortably.

Logan blurted, "I remember, _James_."

Diamond looked guarded, wary. "Oh yeah? What is it you remember?"

Logan met his gaze straight on. "Not everything. But I know we started seeing each other after I reported the museum thefts. Why didn't you just tell me?"

"Because we shouldn't have been seeing each other," Diamond replied shortly. "I crossed more than a couple of professional lines when we started going out. You want the truth? I thought you were pretending you didn't remember about us for your own reasons."

"What reasons?"

Diamond raised a shoulder in a kind of who-knows-with-you gesture.

"Why did you… ? Is that why you broke it off? Because it was a violation of professional ethics?"

Diamond's face tightened. "I thought you said you remembered?"

Logan admitted, "It's more that I finally managed to put two and two together. I don't remember…" He couldn't seem to look away from James' hazel eyes. Hot color flooded his face as he got out, "I've been having these dreams… and I think they're about you."

"You _think_?"

Logan said, "I know it sounds idiotic, but… the doctors were right. I think I didn't remember because I didn't want to—because it was painful. I've been taking a prescription for anxiety and depression since December."

There was a funny break.

James' brows drew together. "You're on antidepressants?"

"I quit taking them after I got out of the hospital."

"Hell. You're not supposed to just stop taking that stuff, you know. If someone gets hold of that information… your credibility could be further damaged."

"I know. Judging by the number of pills in the bottle, I think I was in the process of weaning myself off them. Anyway, the point is, a couple of friends told me that after we broke up, I was pretty depressed."

James was still eyeing him skeptically, but something had changed in his face. Some of the hardness had gone.

"And those dreams… I kept telling myself they were of Dak. Even in my dream I kept telling myself they were of Dak, but I couldn't see my… my lover's face. I guess my subconscious was trying to show me that it wasn't Dak I was with. Once I realized"—his color heightened, but he said it anyway—"the dreams are of you, yeah. Why did you break it off with me?"

Surprisingly, there was color in James' face too. He said, "If you're really not planning to stay here for what's left of the night—and I wouldn't, if I was you—let's go back to my place. We can talk without getting interrupted. I have to be at the station later in the morning, but you can stay there and sleep without worrying about anyone breaking in and trying to cap you again."

As invitations went… Well, at least it _was _an invitation, and the best one Logan had had in a long time.

* * *

James lived in a condo in a very nice neighborhood. On the outside it was just an innocuous, red stucco, two-story building, and Logan was too tired to pay much attention as he followed James upstairs.

He remembered the inside, though—or at least it felt familiar. But maybe because it was pretty much a generic bachelor pad: comfortable furniture, plasma TV, and an impressive stereo system. There was a large tank of tropical fish against one wall and a couple of nice oils of the ocean on the other.

"You want a beer?"

Logan shook his head, watching without interest as James disappeared into the kitchen. He reappeared a few moments later and sat on the other end of the sofa. He took a long swallow of beer from the bottle and sighed appreciatively. "Man, it's good to be home."

Yes. It must be nice. Logan didn't think he would know that feeling again until he finally regained his memory.

He said, "So what made you change your mind?"

James raised a lazy eyebrow. "About what?"

"You don't think I'm guilty anymore? In the hospital you acted like you thought I was guilty."

James took another swig of beer and seemed to consider the question. "I'm not going to pretend. I'd have been happy if you were guilty. I was mad as hell at you. At the way things ended between us."

Logan tried to take this in. "But _you _ended them."

"Yeah. I did." James seemed to weigh his words. "I liked you a lot, Logan. I thought… Well, it doesn't matter. But before long it was obvious it wasn't going anywhere, and that it never would so long as Dak was part of your life."

"There wasn't anything between Dak and me. Dak said himself—"

"I don't know what Dak told you, and maybe you weren't sleeping together, but he had you on a very short leash. You've been infatuated with him since college, and from what I could see, he liked and encouraged that."

Logan was shaking his head, rejecting this. "He's married."

James said dryly, "I know all about Dak's marriage. I heard about it in detail from you. The third time you broke a date with me to go listen to Dak whine about his marriage was when I told you I'd had enough. That you were going to have to decide whether you wanted a relationship with me or with Dak. You chose Dak."

"I… chose Dak?"

James said wearily, "Not in so many words. Your argument was that you weren't going to be handed any ultimatums. And my argument was I wanted a real relationship with you—or to at least to explore the possibilities of having one—but that I didn't want to work around Dak's schedule."

Logan said slowly, "But if Dak was going through a bad time…"

"Yep," James said curtly. "I wasn't very sympathetic, and I'm still not. I think Dak Zevon is a user and a manipulator. And probably a closet case. I think he married Carly Rowland for money, and I think he got what he paid for. I told you then and I'm telling you now, he's bad news."

"And you couldn't—"

"No, I couldn't. Like I said, I had feelings for you."

Logan said resentfully, "You sure didn't have trouble closing the door on me."

"You have no idea how I felt. You didn't make any attempt to find out. You chose Dak, and that was that."

"I think six months of Zoloft says otherwise."

After a hesitation, James said, "Obviously, I didn't know that. I still don't. That is, you might have been taking antidepressants for a lot of other reasons."

But Logan was pretty sure, even if the details were still fuzzy, that the tension of trying to balance his changing feelings for Dak —his growing disillusionment and fear that he was indeed being manipulated—and losing James, who he knew, even without his complete memory, had been special, someone he could have really cared for, was the explanation for his turning to chemical relief.

He rubbed his aching temples, and James said gruffly, "Why don't you get some rest. We'll talk when I get home tonight."

Logan raised his head, scowling. "Sleep? You think I can sleep? My life is a train wreck." He gave a sour laugh. "I've lost my job, I'm being kicked out of my home, and I've been arrested for grand theft and charged with a felony. I'm probably going to go to prison—if someone doesn't kill me first. How am I supposed to sleep?"

"What's the alternative? A thirty-day supply of NoDoz?"

"You're all heart."

James sighed. "What do you want from me? You're in deep shit. And if I tell you who I think is responsible for it, you're not going to be happy."

Logan stared. "You think _Dak _is responsible for my being arrested?"

"I think Dak has been stealing from his granddaddy's house of horrors for some time now. And so do you, I suspect, which is why after initiating an investigation, you suddenly got cold feet. For the record? It's another thing we argued about." He added, "Which is why I thought you might be faking amnesia. I thought you might be trying to protect Dak."

"Faking amnesia. You honestly thought I might _fake _amnesia?"

A flicker of self-consciousness crossed James' face, but he said, "And if you were trying to protect Dak, I thought that putting pressure on you, making you think you were a suspect, might get you to crack."

"You deliberately let me think I was a suspect?"

"Unfortunately, my plan backfired."

"You're quite a bastard," Logan said civilly.

"I never said I wasn't. But I'm not as big a bastard as your best buddy Dak who, I think, hired someone to try and kill you last night."

"No. No way."

"I don't think he'd have the balls to do it himself."

Logan stood up. "Dak did not break into my house. He did not hire someone else to break in. You don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

James was unmoved. "Here's what I think is going on. I think you walked in on the middle of Dak and an accomplice carting off that mural. I think that's why you don't want to remember what you saw."

"If that were true"— Logan swallowed, and the persistent ache in his temples turned into a sick, heavy thudding behind his eyes—"then you think Dak or this accomplice attacked me. Why wouldn't he just kill me then? Why would he wait to have to hire someone?"

"Maybe he didn't know for sure what you saw. Maybe he was a little squeamish. Maybe he's even a little fond of you. But he's not fonder of you than he is himself. I think he began to worry about you getting your memory back. Or maybe it's more that he saw—or believed he saw—you were becoming the focus of our investigation, and he decided to set you up."

"By killing me? Wouldn't that defeat the purpose?"

James said calmly, "I think there's been an ongoing difference of opinion on what to do about you."

"Between who?"

"Dak and his accomplice."

"Who's this accomplice?"

James said nothing.

Logan dropped back down on the couch. "Well? You've told me this much. Go ahead and hit me with it."

"I think it ought to be pretty obvious."

Logan fell silent, thinking. He was so god-awful tired. It was difficult to string sentences together. Let alone actually think before he spoke.

"Come on," James said. "Use your head. Where did the real evidence against you come from?"

Logan said slowly, "Bitters. The man who picked me out of a lineup. The man who claimed I approached him trying to sell stolen goods."

James didn't agree or disagree. "See, the problem with Bitters' story is, if it's _not _true… then what does he have to gain by such a lie? It could be Dak is paying him to frame you, but the fact that he coincidentally owns a pawnshop—and has more than a few unsavory connections—leads us to speculate that his motive is a little more personal. Like a useful cover story for himself."

"Dak is working with Bitters?"

"We began to look at Mr. Bitters more closely when he couldn't come up with the surveillance tape of you that he originally claimed he had. His story was they reuse the old tapes, which is common enough, but claiming he had it and then backtracking aroused suspicion—especially since I was pretty sure you weren't stealing from the museum."

"Pretty sure."

"What do you want?" James said irritably. "I didn't think you were guilty. But I've been wrong before."

Logan continued to work it out. Reluctantly, he said at last, "And the reason Bitters didn't have to break in tonight was because Dak gave him the key to my place?"

"I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd planted some items in your house to make it look like your accomplices double-crossed you—or feared you were double-crossing them. But I never expect them to try to kill you."

Logan rose again, brushing against the coffee table as he went to the window, staring out.

He didn't want to believe it, but… too much of it made sense.

He remembered telling Dak his memory was coming back, and Dak had immediately arranged for a convening of the museum trustees—and Logan's suspension. Carlos and Kendall were right. Dak ran that committee. Nothing happened that Dak didn't want to have happen, so if Logan had been suspended, it was because Dak wanted him gone.

"I don't believe he wanted me dead."

James said nothing.

Logan turned back to face him. "I don't believe it!" His own anger surprised him. "He wouldn't do that to me. He wouldn't have reason to do that to me."

"No? Would you have gone to prison for him?"

Logan opened his mouth and closed it.

"You're a good friend, and God knows you're loyal, but you're not stupid. Generally. And even if Dak was willing to take the chance that you would keep your mouth shut or even take the fall for him, Bitters isn't the trusting type."

Logan shook his head.

James ignored this silent protest. "I'll tell you something else. Bitters's got a case full of guns in that shop of his. I'm betting one of them is going to turn up missing. First thing today, I plan on getting a search warrant."

Logan sat down, resting his face in his hands. He wasn't crying. He felt too numb for tears. Too tired to feel much of anything at all.

How in love with Dak he must have been to have chosen him over James. Funny that he couldn't seem to remember that feeling at all.

"Hey." James rose and went over to him. He squeezed Logan's shoulder. "I'm sorry it worked out like this, okay?"

Hadn't Dak said something similar? Logan said listlessly, "Yeah."

"It's not… I don't enjoy this. What I said earlier? I don't really… want you hurt."

Logan nodded, still not looking up. He …couldn't. There was just too much to deal with, to try and make sense of. Too many losses in twenty-four hours.

James stood over him for a moment while Logan struggled for control.

"Don't, Logan," James said at last, and there was something in his voice—a roughness intended to disguise an emotion James didn't want to feel.

"I'm okay. Just…" His voice cracked and he shut up because he'd embarrassed himself enough times already in front of James.

To his surprise, James sat down next to him and pulled him, with impatient kindness, into his arms. "Cry if it'll make you feel better," he rasped. "But he's not worth it."

Logan looked up, managing an unsteady smile. "No, but you were."

* * *

_**Hope You Liked It! XD**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**I Don't Own Anything!**_

_**Thanks to: **__**Guest,**__** Stallion842**__**6**__**, **__**Carphanie, gaberhino, lilygirl42001 **__****__**and AureaSE **__**for the review, IT MEANS SO SO MUCH! **__**XD**_

_**And anyone who has followed/favorited/read the story! THANKS A LOT! **__**=D**_

_**A/N: I want to say that I am very happy that this story is over 1000 views! And thank you all guys so so so much for stay with me during this time! XD =D The bad new is there**__** is only one more chapter and the story ends =( But **__**Enjoy!**_

* * *

_**REMEMBER THE TIME**_

**Chapter Nine**

James stared at him, not moving—not even blinking. "You had a choice," he said finally. "And if you had second thoughts…"

"I could have what? Are you telling me the door was always open?"

James seemed to experience some kind of inward struggle. "No. The door wasn't open."

"So? If I'd realized I'd made a mistake…?"

"Is that what you're saying?"

It seemed sort of odd to be cold-bloodedly discussing it when he was right here in James' arms. Logan angled his head and cut off anything more James might have had to say with a kiss. It was not the smoothest move he'd ever made, his mouth landing off-center on James'. But it was surprisingly sweet—and, astonishingly, James tasted familiar. He tasted like spearmint gum and warm male, and the memory of all those dreams came rushing back. Except… maybe it wasn't all dream.

James' powerful arms wrapped around him, pulling him still closer, and Logan slid his hands into James' soft hair, trying for a better approach this time. He could feel James smiling wryly against his mouth—and then James' lips parted.

Their tongues touched, parted. Tongue tag, he thought dizzily at the soaring rush of that contact. And you're it. He flicked his tongue again, and James' tongue—wet and hot—pushed delicately back. They were kissing deeply, hungrily then, kissing like it was a matter of life and breath, pressing closer, noses bumping, eyelashes skimming, teeth grazing. There was a wonderful relief in being wanted, knowing he _was _wanted.

Logan didn't have to have his memory back to understand how much that must have meant to him six months earlier. To be wanted, appreciated, desired, after Dak's careful maneuverings. Dak, affectionate and teasing and always keeping him at arm's length. Whereas James… James held him close and kissed him like Logan was the one he'd been waiting for all his life.

And Logan had been stupid enough to let him go. To choose Dak and all his hang-ups and problems. Why? Habit? Loyalty? Or something more complicated? The fear that maybe James was trying to manipulate him too? But it sounded like James had had right on his side. That Logan had been the unfair one—even if he'd acted out of loyalty and friendship to Dak. Expecting a man like James to sit home patiently while Logan ran off to hold Dak's hand every time Dak had a crisis? No wonder James had told him to figure it out or get lost.

Logan had managed to get very lost indeed. That was obvious. He groaned against James' mouth, and James broke the kiss to eye him watchfully. "If this isn't what you want, you better make it clear now."

"I'm thinking of the time we lost," Logan said, his mouth tingling from the assault of James'. "I'm thinking of what a stupid fool I was."

"Yeah, well if you'd stuck with me, you wouldn't be in the mess you're in now, that's for sure."

"I'm depressed enough, okay? No need to put the put the boot in," He pouted.

"No." James laughed lightly then his grimace was rueful. "You know, if I'd known you were… If I'd known about the antidepressants… I don't know. It never occurred to me you had any regrets."

"I thought I'd blown it. That you wouldn't—"

"My bark is worse than my bite."

"Yeah?"

"Well, no." James' grin was lovable.

And Logan can't help but banged his mouth onto James' again in a kiss both urgent and deep. His hands went to the buttons of James' collar, and he began undoing them as quickly as he could. James grabbed Logan's sweatshirt and tugged upward. Logan took over, wriggling out of it as James finished unbuttoning his own shirt, hands dropping to his belt buckle. The rest of their clothes went flying in a matter of seconds, and then they were sliding to a heap on the floor, hands slipping over each other's bodies, kissing once more.

The coffee table rattled as Logan bumped into it, and James reached out blindly, shoving it away. Logan's dreams and memories were colliding as they rolled together in a tangle of legs and arms. James' heart was thundering against his own chest, and he was acutely aware of the smoothness of bare skin and the crackle of soft hair, the hardness of muscles and bone—and the hardness that was neither.

James was kissing and nibbling his shoulder when Logan moaned, "Damn, I want to fuck."

James stopped and laughed.

Logan opened his eyes. "Why are you laughing at me? What's funny about that?"

"You. You were always so prim and proper. I practically had to seduce you every time." James asked huskily, "Have you been with anyone since me?"

Logan shook his head. "I don't think… No. I'm sure I haven't."

"I have, but I'm clean."

Logan blinked at him, not following—trying not to mind about the fact that James had been, reasonably enough, still seeing people, still sleeping with people. It occurred to him what James meant and he blushed.

"Yeah. I want to. I want you to."

"You want _me _to—" James needed no second invitation. His hand was between Logan's thigh, and his mouth was latched onto one of Logan's nipples, and Logan was crying out and arching against him.

"James … Oh yeah_…_"

James sucked and then bit gently down, and Logan gasped and grabbed for James' head, pulling it closer even as he was squirming at the intensity of pleasure. One of James' hands was on Logan's balls, squeezing them gently, teasingly. No wonder he'd been depressed. Giving up this? For _what? _

When was the last time he'd had this?

No question. James had been the last time. James, who despite his hard and cold behavior, was tender and coaxing and sweet, who seduced with fingers and tongue and soft words till Logan —despite the aches and pains of his fight with the midnight intruder—was feverish and panting and aching for more—and then more.

And then all at once he was on his own, his body chilled by the sudden retreat.

"Where'd you go?" Logan lifted his head, and James was crossing the floor in three big steps from the bedroom and throwing himself down on top of Logan again.

"Right here. We need this." He held up the tube of lubricant, and Logan shuddered with anticipation, letting his head drop back against the carpet.

"Yes. Do it."

The gel was cool, startling but not unpleasant. James' fingers slid along Logan's crack, stroking, and Logan swallowed hard.

"Relax. I've never hurt you yet," James whispered. His eyes seemed to watch every quiver of Logan's face as he slipped inside Logan's body.

_How strange_, Logan thought dreamily, even as his body moved to accommodate that invasion. _Detective James Diamond's finger is in my hole. James Diamond is thrusting his long finger in and out of my ass, and I'm lying here purring and cooing at how good it feels._

"You like that?" There was a smile in James' voice.

Logan smiled too, although he didn't open his eyes, just focused on the sensation of James' finger pushing into him, drawing out, sliding back in. "Oh yes."

"_Oh yes_!" James mimicked, but there was something indulgent in his tone. He slid another finger in, taking his time, petting and stroking, and Logan wriggled, trying to feel that touch more deeply, more intensely.

"I think you should… I think I'd like…"

"That's what I like about you, Professor Peabody. Your way with words."

Logan's eyes opened. "Don't call me that. Don't make fun of me."

He was astonished when James' face changed. "I'm not making fun of you. At least… not like that. You're just… funny. Sort of cute."

"_Cute_?"

"In every sense of the word, really cute I can say, yeah." He rubbed his nose against Logan's. "Very. I like you. I told you that. I like you a lot."

Logan relaxed again under these ministrations, and then James was urging him up. "Here. You ride me. It'll be easier on all those bumps and bruises." They were trading places on the floor, Logan awkwardly straddling James' hips. He was definitely feeling the battering he had taken earlier, but it didn't matter.

Also the view he had of James at this angle distracted him quite well, he could see perfectly James' impressive abs and his shapely pecs, not to mention those broad shoulders and perfectly tanned skin. James was so beautiful.

He felt for James' erection, pressing the head of his cock against his own well-oiled hole. He put his hands on James' chest and lowered himself down, he could feel James shaking a little with the effort of holding still. James' thick cock scraped its way in, a welcome burn, and then James' hips pushed up and he could feel the softness of that silky body hair against his ass.

"Sorry. You okay?" James managed.

Logan nodded. Too full for words, he thought giddily.

And James did fill him. That thick, long cock stretched and stuffed him so that he was trembling, working to relax and accept and allow the intimacy. James slammed right up into his body, hard thrusts penetrating deeply, then withdrawing, to shove inside again, stroking over the place that made Logan gasp each time at the blaze of pleasure.

"I like watching your face when I fuck you," James grated, rocking his hips.

Logan laughed shakily against the burn behind his eyes, because he was thinking the same thing. James' face was wonderful to watch. He hoped that this was the beginning of something and not the end…

Pressure built inside him, and the pulse in James' cock was echoed by his own heartbeat.

"I'm going to come…" Did they say it at the same time?

Logan came first. He hadn't even been looking for that yet. He'd just wanted the closeness, the sense of belonging… he was coming all right. The tension soared and then bloomed, like ginger or some more exotic spice rushing through his bloodstream.

And then he was shivering with it, wanted to curl up in the melting release of it and close his eyes.

James was still thrusting into him—fierce, deep strokes—and Logan could take it now, no problem. He watched James' taut face through half-closed eyes, never wanting to forget this… homecoming.

Then James gasped something Logan missed, and the next second he was coming and Logan was feeling the shock of wet heat in his own body. James, chuckling unsteadily, tugged at him, and Logan was only too happy to collapse on top of James' brawny chest and close his eyes, feeling absurdly safe in the powerful arms holding him tight.

* * *

"Hell. I'm late."

Logan opened his eyes. It took him a few blinks to place himself. Oh, right. He was in James' bedroom—in James' bed. James was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his back to Logan as he pulled his wristwatch off and set it on the night table.

Logan reached a lazy hand to brush down James' back, but James rose and disappeared into the bathroom. Logan heard the shower running.

He didn't remember how they'd got from the living room to the bedroom, but he was glad he wasn't sleeping on the floor. He was in enough pain as it was. He sat up, biting back a yelp, and managed to pull on his pants. It was not a fun process.

He hobbled into the kitchen and put the coffee machine on.

He looked at the clock. Nearly eleven o'clock. He still felt groggy.

The shower cut off. He heard James leave the bathroom and go into the bedroom, heard the slide of closet doors.

James walked into the kitchen. He was wearing black trousers and nothing else. He was combing his wet hair, and that was the sexiest thing Logan had ever seen. He felt a little self-conscious suddenly. A little out of his league.

He was painfully aware that, unlike him, life had not stopped for James. James had moved on. And sex—even some relatively spectacular sex—didn't change that. James had plainly said that the door had not remained open.

"Coffee is nearly ready," he said.

"I don't have time." James continued to comb his hair. "What are your plans today?"

"I'm supposed to meet with my lawyer." Logan's gut was knotting up at the recollection of everything hanging over him. Maybe James was right about Dak and Bitters, but in the meantime Logan was the one facing trial and jail time.

"Okay. Why don't you come back here afterward?"

Logan's heart rose a little. He managed not to ask, _Why? _because he wasn't sure he wanted to hear James say something about it being safer. He wanted to think James wanted him for the pleasure of his company.

"I need to pick up some things from the bungalow."

"All right." James disappeared into the living room.

Slightly disappointed, Logan poured coffee.

When he turned around, James was right behind him, and he jumped.

James laughed. "Hey, I'm the good guy, remember? I'm on your side." He was dressed completely now. Fast as Superman in the quick-change department. He handed Logan a key. "Here."

Logan took the key and put it into his pocket. "Thanks. Thanks for everything, in fact. For letting me stay here last night, and for—"

James gently kissed him, effectively shutting him up.

"You're welcome. Be good today."

And with that he was gone.

* * *

It was not a good day.

Late morning, Logan made his appearance in the overly air-conditioned offices of Stephenson and Crane. It was immediately obvious to him that Mr. Stephenson had suffered some kind of crisis of faith. Or maybe it was a crisis of confidence. Either way, it didn't look good for Logan.

After a few costly minutes of fencing, Mr. Stephenson bluntly informed him that the DA was pressing for the maximum penalty, which likely meant up to sixteen months in a state prison.

When Logan could speak again, he protested, "But I haven't been convicted. I haven't even gone to trial yet."

Mr. Stephenson didn't seem to hear this. Given the fact that Logan had no previous criminal record and that his employers had spoken up on his behalf, there was a possibility he would get off with the lighter sentence of one year in county jail. Provided…

"What?" Logan meant, _What in the hell are you talking about? _But Mr. Stephenson seemed to think he meant he needed more details on his plea bargain.

"Provided," Mr. Stephenson said briskly, "you plead guilty, thus sparing everyone the expense and scandal of a trial."

"Provided I—are you joking?"

Mr. Stephenson's expression indicated he was not joking. "Hear me out. It's an _extremely _generous offer. The museum has indicated that they will waive your paying financial restitution, which you are clearly in no position to do."

"But I didn't steal the mural. I didn't steal anything!"

Clearly, all Mr. Stephenson's clients said that.

Logan said, "I don't understand why you're throwing in the towel. From what I understand, the main witness against me can't even come up with the incriminating videotapes."

Abruptly he seemed to have regained Mr. Stephenson's attention. "Where did you hear that?"

"From the police."

"Ah." Mr. Stephenson was shuffling papers on his desk, as though getting them to all line up properly was of vital importance. "Well, that may be true, but it's also true the police believe they have an airtight case."

Not _all _the police, but that wasn't something Logan could share.

Watching Mr. Stephenson rearrange papers some more, Logan said, "Don't you find it suspicious that "the museum" is waiving my paying financial restitution? We're talking a small fortune."

"A fortune you have no hope of repaying. I find it a gesture of rare compassion. Mr. Zevon, speaking on behalf of the rest of the board, testified as to your long friendship and the fact that you've been under considerable strain for a number of months. In fact, I believe he'd have been happy if we could have eliminated any jail time for you, but unfortunately the DA won't consider it."

Logan studied Mr. Stephenson, who seemed to be avoiding meeting his gaze directly.

"I see," he said finally. "And you think taking this deal is in my best interests?"

"I do, yes." Mr. Stephenson continued to stare at the papers on his desk.

"Thank you for your advice," Logan said. "You can tell "the museum" that you tried. However, I'm absolutely determined to take my chances in a courtroom."

Stephenson did look up then. "That's a mistake, Mr. Mitchell. Believe me, we do not want this case tried in open court."

That was obvious.

"I appreciate your advice," Logan said, "but I'll be seeking new legal representation."

Mr. Stephenson's mouth was still open when Logan closed the door to his office.

* * *

He drove back to Constantine House and parked in front of the bungalow. Inside, everything looked perfectly normal—barring the broken window in the kitchen and the bullet holes and knocked-over furniture in the bedroom.

Logan quickly packed a couple of changes of clothing and a few other things he would need for the next few days—hoping that James would be agreeable to his staying on for that long. He pulled open his underwear drawer, lifted up a stack of undershirts, and spotted what at first looked like an enameled teacup with varicolored stylized flowers, mushrooms, and foliage on a cream and dark blue background.

Frowning, he picked up the silver-gilt and cloisonné enamel tea glass holder by its scroll handle. His hand began to shake and he had to set the cup down. He had noticed its absence from the museum collection several months ago. One of the first items that he had noticed missing, in fact. It wasn't in the same class as the stolen jade or the mural that had been removed from the grotto, but it was a nice piece of work and worth three to four thousand dollars. It was also an easily recognizable piece bearing the stamp of the 20th Artel and town mark for Moscow. No wonder Dak and Bitters had thought better of trying to move it right away.

Logan could just about hear the reverberation of the prison door clanging shut behind him.

Any minute now the cops were going to show up with their search warrants and a list of all the items missing from the museum. How many other items from Constantine House were hidden in here among the items rightly kept at the bungalow?

He needed to act quickly. Alarmingly, the only thing he could think of was calling James, and after a brief struggle with himself, that was exactly what he did.

James picked up on the second ring and Logan barely waited for him to identify himself before saying, "Are you someplace you can talk?"

"Yeah. Listen. Bad news. We didn't find the gun at Bitters'. We're going through his records now. Maybe something will turn up, but—"

"It's worse than that. I think my lawyer has been bought off. I've been advised to plead guilty in order to receive a lesser sentence. It's like… they already have me convicted."

"You're not going to jail." James sounded so definite; Logan felt a flicker of hope.

"James, it gets worse. I stopped at the bungalow to pack a few things, and I-I found a cloisonné glass holder—one of the items I originally reported missing to you."

There was dead silence on the other end of the line.

"I don't know what to do. Should I…? What should I do? Someone's going to show up here with a search warrant."

"Yeah. The search warrant has already been issued."

"Oh God. Should I call someone? Report finding it?"

"You've called me."

"I know. But…"

James said brusquely, "Look, I'll handle it."

"How?"

"I'll tell you about it when I get home."

"That's another thing." This was the hard part. Logan sucked in a deep breath. "I can't go back to your place. I… How can I? This… conspiracy is going to drag you down too. You can't be seen to have a personal connection with me. You know what that could mean. You could ruin your career. You could lose your job."

There was silence. James said crisply, "We'll talk when I get home."

"James—"

"Listen. I think you're worth the risk, all right? Now go back to my place and try to keep a low profile."

It was hard to speak around the tightness in his throat. "You… don't have to do this."

"I know. I want to. So stop worrying. I'll see you tonight."

James disconnected.

* * *

_**Hope You Liked It! XD**_


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